Feeling: full. This house is always packed with junk food.
Listening to: A Knight's Tale on TV
Reading/Watching: Puppy. He's so grown up. ::sniffle::

Okay, let me give everyone a little tutorial on something called the right lane.

God invented the right lane for something special called driving. The left lane was created as an accessory. One is meant to drive in the right lane except when you need to pass someone.

The left lane is not meant to be cruised in at all times. It is not meant to be camped in. It might feel safer to insecure drivers because there are fewer on-ramps or accidental exits to run into, but for goodness sake, if you can't stay vigilant enough to watch for those, what the hell are you behind the wheel of half a ton of metal for?

I've not heard of any allergies to the right lane. Not heard of any right-lane drivers being struck down by divine lightning.

So why are you sitting in the left lane cruising at 65? Why are you passing people at the rate of two inches per week when they're fast coming up on an eighteen-wheeler and need to get behind you to pass it?

And don't you dare give me the evil eye when I pass your granny ass in the right lane. If I'm to your right, and I'm passing you, this is not a sign of deficiency in my driving.

In other words, I'm in Homeville. I'm heading back to Schooltown early Monday morning to continue the job search, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose some money this summer. But it's going to be a fun ride, figuring out exactly what I'm capable of.

Puppy got a job as a busboy. He walked in, the manager looked at all 6'5" of him, and he was hired. They're a new restaurant and they needed employees. I feel so old... my baby brother's working, for goodness sakes. I was holding him in my lap and reading The Baby-Sitters Club to him something like a week ago, it seems. We visited him in his new job tonight- he was wearing a baseball cap and an apron and his jeans were soaked at the hems because he always buys them long for fear of another growth spurt. He was already quick on his feet and handling the Saturday night rush rather well.

I feel like a parent or something, although Mom and Dad were proud and fussing over him enough for six people: "Do you get a dinner here?" "Are you tired?" "Do you need to rest?" "Why are your jeans wet?" "Do you like it here?" "Say the word and we'll all go home and you can find a job elsewhere."

LOL. And they say he's not the favorite.

Comments? 0 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.