Okay, Brother. I asked, God answered:
portal. Let me tell you how it is.
I drive back to Mom’s. I don't want to go; I have to go. My consultancy is requested, I'm offered a bottle of liquor, I left significant quantities of quality drug paraphernalia behind—I'm gonna
need some of that that shit, yo, come on, Man; I've only used some of those props two or three times, and that gear doesn't grow on trees, except
maybe in Louisiana—so, I gotta drive.
I'd rather stay and defend My Queen’s honour some more, of course. Practice makes perfect. I'm thinking of calling the place Carnegie Farm.
(“How do you get there?” “R***.”) But it sucks anyway... things aren't going well. THINGS aren't going RITE. You dig?
Sure, you remember. “Boss, take this job and shove it.” I have been in a fuckin’
mood, as they say. As you'll recall. Like I told you. I'd go check the tape, but, O, look. Wiped. I don't remember how I put it exactly, but here goes:
“Jesus, get me
the fuck outta here.” And
bupkis. No swirly ring of fire. No sounds of any trumpets, holy, huge, y-uge or otherwise. Just me, just left, stranded on a street corner with my bare legs hanging out in the wind, leaning against it like a common whore needing a fixed pair of lifted pumps. I won't lie; I've been in that position before. Haven't we all? Trust me:
you will be.So, I didn't mind telling you; curses, foiled again. I think it was my turn to do the dishes that night anyway. And it doesn't mean as much, if I am not there to say
direct: “fuck no; that's women's work,
you do it, you're close enough; you'll
manage, I have something
actually important going on,” if I'm not even there. I've got a soundboard on my IdeaPad that'll play all that—repeating, of course—but if I'm not there to say it directly to One's Face, the delivery lacks
nuance.
So, I drive two hours plus in major minus traffic, and, hey, get this: halfway back to Seattle, I-5 is suddenly “closed.” Like, the whole f****** freeway. “Take alternate routes.” Because according to sudden DoT signage, 3 miles north of the airport, I-5 turns into a
blockade.
Uhh...
Que? Are there
tanks? Cool. I'm tempted to ignore the signs. The way I'm going, the alternate route, the only legitimately viable option, is to drive around Lake Washington. It's a fucking shitshow under the best of circumstances, and these are not at all they. All the lemmings packed into tiny metal boxes are drifting off to the right where the off-ramp is, an off-ramp I know well, It's the way to go to go to Bellevue, and I don't f****** want to go to Bellevue.
F*** Bell-
view. And f*** the view of this long line of cars getting ready to go off to
the right, I think. I want to go
home. Why the hell am I being directed to
the right? Oh.
Right. Portal. I AM.
