|no matter how you dress it up,|
this is still liver
I would even lick the plate. And liver is pretty fucking disgusting.
I have this god-awful fear of dying. As in, I break out in a sweat at random moments throughout the day thinking of any kind of possibility that it may be my last few moments on earth.
Not healthy. I get it.
And driving is no exception. I have to do it every day. And I freak out every day. And with the hubby still in the rehabilitation centre from his stroke, I do long distances more than I would ever consider a decent amount of driving for a long-haul truck driver. Some days, I feel like I spend most of my time behind the steering wheel.
|What I look like driving.|
So pretty, no? (not really me)
Case in point: Just yesterday I was hit and ran. TWICE. And in the midst of my complete meltdown because of it, I took my eyes off the road for a split second to merge into an HOV lane, and almost killed myself and my children in doing so.
Apparently drivers like to slam on their brakes in traffic. The only reason we didn't die is because, as luck would have it, no one was in the lane to the right of me when I twisted the wheel to avoid the collision. Had there of been, I would have nailed them going at least 60 clicks.
Driving causes me to break out in road rage. And tears.
So, when I win that huge 50 million Lotto Max, I will be accepting resumes from professional drivers. A masters degree in stunt driving will be necessary of course. But only because you have to be skilled like a mo-fo to avoid the crazy mother fuckers that all seem to live by me.