No, this is not a critique on the horrific Boston drivers (although, really, can enough ever be said?). This is an acknowledgement of my own dangerous driving. Today was a blissfully traffic-free day. So la-la-la I’m driving to work. I’ve got some Kanda Bongo Man playing on the c.d. I’m obsessing about that fact that while I may have an idea for my novel, I don’t actually have any semblance of a plot. And I realize, I’ve driven about three and a half miles and I have no recollection of getting from point A to point B. It’s like I just tune out while I’m behind the wheel, and I start daydreaming about anything from my plot to take over the world [doh! I said plot even though I’ve already admitted I have no plot!] to what I’m going to have for dinner to wondering if I really like this new shade of hair color I picked out (it’s more dark brown, with not many hints of red. Nothing drastic, but I’m still not convinced yet). When I realize that I have no idea how I got to wherever it is I am, I immediately wake up and pay attention to the road. Until the next thought enters my mind… I’m thinking this isn’t the safest way to drive, and if I weren’t so lazy, I should probably just take public transportation. This is why Adam always drives when we go anywhere together.
Where to Find Me
