The Truth About Passing Lanes

When driving to The Parents' House from College Place, much of my journey is comprised of fields, trees, and long, long stretches of highway. It truly makes for a wonderful (but BORING MY GOD BORING) ride. Of course, such travels are not without certain low points.

Without fail, my passing lane experiences follow the same formula with every trip. When I finally hit a stretch of highway that includes a passing lane, there are no cars to pass. Never. There's...there's nothing. Nobody. It is as if I have suddenly entered a time warp that spit me out into a post-apocalyptic world in which all of the cars have turned into sparklers or hamburger buns or some such. It feels very much like this:

Note the tumbleweeds. 

I have no reason to floor the gas pedal (but fuck it, I do it anyway), nor do I get to feel the smug satisfaction of passing some slow loser. That's because the slow losers are waiting for me at the very goddamn end of the passing lane.

When there are no passing lanes for at least twenty miles, that's when a huge white van appears out of a Satan hole and throws the cruise control on 40. Miles. Per. Hour. Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

I CAN'T GO THIRTY-EIGHT I GOT PLACES TO BE FOOL

Yes, I could simply pass using the other lane-- it does not have to be a lane that is first and foremost designated as a PASSING lane. I know this. I understand this. I accept it. Here's the thing about me, folks; if I can't see at least 3.47 miles (super eyes, I have them) ahead into the other lane so as to avoid oncoming traffic and thus calm the looming threat of death, it's not happening. I'm not doing it. Now consider that these are country roads that I speak of; these are winding, hilly roads (the movies have not lied) that defeat my super eyes (because I do not have X-ray eyes for tax reasons) and do not let me attain the comfort and confidence required in the simple task of passing someone via the opposite lane. 

So then I must sit in my chair and clutch my steering wheel tighter and tighter as every tedious minute passes. I must stare at the white van (or whatever the hell) and will it to explode, thus assuring a migrane. I must savagely scream in rhythm to whatever little jingle is blaring over the radio at the time-- and I must do all of this for at least ten minutes (hey, ten minutes is a long time to be this wretchedly angry), all on account of passive surrender. Shit.

tl;dr: Passing lanes should be everywhere, I am a craven, white vans should be fed to giants.

My Tribute To Polyphasic Sleep Cycles

I've recently been enjoying the somewhat involuntary practice of a polyphasic sleep cycle. I have only been sleeping for 2 two-hour periods every day. My insomnia dictates this; I never planned on such a schedule, but my brain fell into this pattern because...zombie babies. Yes. Zombie babies. On the weekends and holidays, it is quite lovely, as I have much free time to make silly drawings, write silly things, and yell at squirrels and old people-- all whilst well rested. During the business week, however, it feels much like this:

This is supposed to be surreal. Shit.

Oh Drat, Insomnia.

Peanut Butter and Marble Rye,
take me from this still and sleepless place.

Creaky Legs (Oh God, What Have I Done?)

    
     I've never been what one could call "athletic." Throughout my life, I have deftly avoided sports and all sports related activities. It has occurred to me, however, that our days are numbered before the impending zombie/vampire/nuclear mutant/Owen Wilson clone apocalypse strikes, and it would be wise to get my body into some kind of decent physical condition so that I can effectively flee the murderous hoards. In my current state of fitness, I can indeed run if there is something to run from for as long as my creaking legs and tar-weighted lungs will allow-- about three minutes. That is why I've decided to take up the cherished past time of jogging/sprinting for no good reason at all. This is the account of my first morning:

What the hell is this? Read on to find out!

First Ten Minutes: Stretching!
My bosom is filled with the premature self-satisfaction that accompanies such a healthy addition to one's schedule. I scrape together the remnants of memories from high school gym classes and perform several basic stretching motions. With each poorly executed exercise, I am bored by the count of ten, but I persevere! I make it to twenty! Usually!


Jogging: First Two Minutes!
My heart is already thudding at an accelerated rate; it is confused, considering the many previous years of minimal performance. Only in the presence of squirrels, Twilight fans, and tremendous amounts of caffeine did the body that it dwells inside of require more than a few half-hearted (HA oh fuck) beats every hour. Now it is suddenly being forced to push blood through the veins that it feeds at a torrential rate, but soon the confusion falls away, and the heart and body become exhilarated! Fitness! Nothing can stop me! Nothing! Exclamation point!


Four Minutes!
Determination drives my spirit onward. My legs are tingling with a strange warm energy. The monotonous echoing of BOMPBOMPBOMPBOMP pounds in my ears, throat and fingertips-- MAGIC! I feel young and alive; it is as if my heart no longer resides only within my ribcage, but has spread to every last centimeter of my bod-- wait, has it only been...


Five & 1/2 Minutes!
The rejuvenation that I felt only seconds earlier now seems to resemble the sensation that probably accompanies the onset of death. The rhythmic puffing sounds from my lungs have degraded into a quiet, uneven wheezing. My legs are still holding out reasonably well, but I find myself suddenly and immensely concerned that my heart and lungs may explode simultaneously and fuse into a strange tar monster that will storm the streets. For the safety of the city, I pause for a quick break.


Break!
I glance at my reflection in a darkened window and find myself confronted by a perplexing sight. Without my knowledge, it seems that my carotid artery has become inhabited by a foreign life form that is desperately trying to hammer its way out of the side of my neck. Perhaps zombies are not what will trouble us, but instead body-invading aliens that require a decorative esophagus to correct their Chi. Then a horrifying thought comes to mind: perhaps the tar-fusion-monster has already happened; oh, god, what have I done?


Running! Again!
After a brief (and slightly worrisome) rest, I'm at it again, a bit more refreshed and all the more determined. Unfortunately, the ten second pause in which I contemplated my potential role in the downfall of Man allowed my legs sufficient time to realize that they object to this ridiculous new addition to their schedule, and would rather be propped up on a footstool supporting a book or toasty, toasty laptop. My calves protest first; sharp, stiff sensations tear up from my ankles to my knees, soon followed by a dull but un-ignorable ache in my thighs. Oh, god, what...what have I done?


Eight...Minutes...Running...In...Still...
I'm all the worse for the wear. In my failing condition, my only fuel is stubbornness and pride. My legs are tremendously stiff and flailing around like poorly constructed windmill wings. Stop to stretch? NO! Not an option! Must finish! Now! Faster! Run FASTER! BATTLE CRY! GRAAAAAAWWWW!!


Nine...Nine Minutes?
OH GOD GET THIS THING OUT OF MY NECK WHY


Ten Minutes.
I'm sitting on the front stoop of my residence smoking a cigarette, weighing the odds of standing up and showering or just living out the rest of my life on these cement stairs. It won't be long, anyway.


Thirteen Minutes.
My legs have cracked off and I'm dragging myself around my stupid apartment to find the wood glue. You may be asking, "why wood glue?" Because it's the only fucking glue I have, I can't remember where I put it, and I need legs if I plan to do this again. God dammit.

Found the wood glue.

Twenty Minutes.
The creature erupted from my neck, made sweet love to the hot water handle of my bathroom sink, and then swiftly made off into the dewy morning air. Oh god. What have I done?

You wouldn't believe the sounds that it made.