I am surrounded again. I cannot take. Not one minute more. 65 miles per hour, trapped by 4 of them, all white. Two Suburbans, one Escalade, and an Expedition; all of the drivers blonde, all on their cell phones, all swerving in and out of their lane. To make it even worse it appears they are psychically linked to slow down and speed up at the same pace. I reach into the passenger seat and dig under my new iPad and retrieve from my bag the remote detonator I rigged to my gas tank--enhanced with10 pounds of homemade dynamite--last night. I give a sad smile to the little girl in the child seat in the vehicle next to me, hoping we all find a better life in the hereafter, and push the button.
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