Today I planned this whole long blog post about a girl in a Mercedes convertible who was behind me on the highway. She had raccoon eye make-up on, and an intense driving style… and bright pink license plates with her name on them. I was going to write about how, even though her car (minus the plates) was really cool, I would never trade places with her in a million years. I was assuming, of course, she was young and single and disdainful of my minivan and blah blah.
But then I thought maybe she stole the car. Maybe the eye make-up was really bruising and she was running away from something or someone. Or maybe her sugar daddy bought the car for her as, like, gross sex repayment. Or possibly she works really hard at her architect job or whatever and loves eye make-up and the color pink. There are an infinite number of possibilities for this girl's story.
I decided not to do the blog post because it would be dumb and potentially divisive. I don't know anything about this girl, just like she doesn't know anything about me.
I tell you this because I still have this hankering to write something about her, but maybe it's just going to have to be a series of short stories or something.
Also, now you know that I really do actually think about what I write on the blog rather than just spewing out craziness. I mean, craziness gets spewed, but there is a smidge of forethought sometimes.
OK. Well, that's it. My whole plan has been dashed. I could tell you about my burgeoning (possible) goiter, or my mammogram coming up on Thursday, but then I would have to realize that maybe my fixation on this girl and her car has more to do with my tender grasp on my own aging process than on anything else. And I'm too tired to write about how I'm getting old. HAHA.