An Inner Monologue: The Commute Home from Work

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It’s finally 5 ‘o clock, and I’ve survived yet another work day filled with idiotic coworkers, clueless clients, and way too much coffee for my own good. Now all I have left to survive is the hour-long drive home in rush hour traffic, and it’s gonna be hell. Time to buckle up, put my road rage helmet on and get ready for the longest hour of my day: the commute home.

5:05 p.m.
I’ve managed to sneak out of the office and into the parking lot without bumping into my coworkers or the boss, and I’m safely inside my car. As soon as I get out of this God-forsaken office parking lot, it’s time to hit the highway. Too bad I’m stuck behind Bob, who waits eight years to make a right turn onto the main road. Any day now, Bob.

5:11 p.m.
Damn this stupid stoplight that’s right in front of the ramp to the highway. Why is this light always red? And why do I have to sit in traffic before I go sit in more traffic? This is already the worst.

5:15 p.m.
It feels like I left the office days ago, but I made it to the highway. Free at last! Except I’m only going 30 miles per hour. Now 20…now 10…

5:16 p.m.
I only got one mile away from the office before we came to a complete stop. Guess I’ll plug my iPod in and get a good playlist going—that’ll help the time go by.

5:17 p.m.
Shit. I forgot to charge my iPod.

5:22 p.m.
Oh my God, this station just played “Blurred Lines.” They’re still playing this song?! Who the hell still requests to hear this after hearing it on the radio, in stores, in bars, at parties, and probably even somewhere in Africa this summer? World, please bury that song. And burn it. And slap whoever those freaks are who are still requesting to hear it.

5:25 p.m.
Great, now we’re at a complete stop right beneath a bridge. I hate when I’m stuck underneath this stupid overpass. One day, the weight of all the cars just sitting up there is going to make it collapse and everything will fall on top of me while I sit idly by. I just know it. Don’t you call me crazy. You know you’ve thought of it, too. And if you haven’t…well, now you will.

5:28 p.m.
Ooh, I think I spy a hottie in the car next to me. I’m just going to casually look over and see what the deal is with this dude.

5:29 p.m.
Okay, that guy was like 50 years old. And he totally just caught me looking at him.
Abort. Abort. Abort.

5:34 p.m.
Well, I’m trapped in this hellhole of a “fast” lane and no one is moving. And now that creepy old dude keeps looking at me because he totally caught me looking at him. GET ME OUT OF HERE.

5:40 p.m.
Hey, you, bro wearing the white-rimmed shades. Yeah, you. I think it’s really cool that you’re driving your dad’s Lexus, but if you try to squeeze in front of my car one more time because you think my lane is going faster than yours, I’m going to purposely rear-end you and then run over your douchebag sunglasses.

5:43 p.m.
I’m legitimately about to just put my car in park and wait this bitch out.

5:45 p.m.
I may have almost rear-ended someone five different times in the past 10 minutes because they keep speeding up to 50 mph and then slamming on their brakes. My favorite song just came on the radio—time to get “turnt” up! That’s what the kids say these days, right? Is that how you use it? Whatever. I’m about to nail this drum solo.

5:48 p.m.
Shit. That was actually a cute guy in the car next to me this time, and he totally just saw me pretend to play the drums on my steering wheel. Forever alone.

5:51 p.m.
Ugh, I’m so tired! All I want to do is get off at my stupid exit two miles down the road so I can get home and change into PJs, microwave a Hot Pocket, and re-watch all the seasons of Breaking Bad. Is that really too much to ask of you, world?

5:53 p.m.
My God, the sun is baking my left arm. Is it possible to get a tan through the car windows? Are car tans a thing?

5:56 p.m.
I MADE IT TO MY EXIT! I’m so close to the finish line! Say BYEway to the HIGHway! I shouldn’t be left alone in my car for this long; I’m getting too weird.

6:00 p.m.
Against all odds, I have finally reached my driveway. Okay, fine. I’ve reached the parking lot to my cheap apartment complex. Either way, I’ve somehow survived the commute home. Hot Pocket, get in my belly.

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