I own an invisible car.
I know. I understand your doubt. It was hard for me to believe, too. But it's the only thing left that makes any sense at all. This many drivers can't all be out to get me, and they can't all be out of their minds. Invisibility is the only remaining rational explanation.
It certainly makes more sense than trying to believe in some kind of coordinated, punitive pan-galactic anti-Bridget attack, or the sheer mathematical improbabilities required to support the existence of that many insane people.
Maybe it happens to you, too. You're driving along, going the speed limit, in your own lane. You're not eating, or texting, or applying makeup. You're not contorting into the backseat to discipline misbehaving short people. Then, suddenly, off to the right, a grandmother launches her dust-streaked rice rocket right past that confusing, apparently optional, octagon-shaped red road sign, completely oblivious to you and your optics-challenged car. You shriek and slam on the brakes, just prior to soul-kissing her "I Heart My Grandkids" bumper sticker.
On other occasions, drivers ahead of me (who obviously can't see me) will just stop in the middle of the road. Just stop. Just brake, hold, pop a window and strike up a conversation with somebody in the adjacent yard, or the oncoming lane.
And then there's Testosterone Boy and his gothic date, The Attack Of The Mascara Monster, abruptly discharging his multi-story, metal-bar-enclosed, monster truck out of the Smokes Plus parking lot, directly into the eyelashes of my headlights, causing me to emit extremely non-Sunday language.
Not that road rage helps. It does no good to yell. Remember - you're invisible. Now, you're wildly waving at passing clouds and birds, and the future parole candidate just keeps on weaving down the road, checking in on his text messages, and checking out his young coed co-pilot with the sweater-threatening upper body assets. Now, you're in need of blood pressure meds at 20, and Captain "Yes, In Fact I Do Own The Whole Darn Road" just keeps veering toward his mustard-stained destination at the nearby McDonald's, totally angst-agnostic.
I think that's part of the problem: in our current culture, I have a relatively small car. And it seems that I own one of the few remaining one-story motor vehicles on Earth. Trust me, I am a nowhere near a Luddite on any level; on the contrary, I am a humongous nerd with a deep affection for technology... It's the creation of gas-guzzling American monsters perpetuating our addiction to foreign oil while simultaneously destroying the environment that I despise. And in turn, I suspect, their intentional attempts to intimidate everyone on the highway with their pimped-out trucks and SUVs.
I'm still at sea about how the physics work out to support this potential invisibility phenomenon. There may some car-park-particle versus road-rage-wave battle going on. Maybe my car is participating in some parallel existence-based, self-serving quantum pinhole experiment, as performed by the ancient Titans, or the neo-Republicans. Maybe my car is only visible within certain time-space-pavement parameters, only evident at the far points of some cosmic cul-de-sac continuum.
I bet Einstein would know. After all, Albert operated on a whole different level than the rest of us... I mean, he was out there. The guy saw time as a yo-yo, and space as a foldable frisbee.
Here's how out there Einstein was. According to family accounts, Albert was slow to speak. He just didn't communicate as a small child – he simply spent his time walking around, looking around, and occasionally teasing his hair.
Legend has it that young Albert never spoke until he was three or four years old, and that his first words were "this soup is cold." Later in life, when asked why he hadn't spoken pre-soup, Albert stared quizzically at his questioner for a second, finally replying, "Because, until then, nothing was wrong."
As they might say in recent public education standardized tests, that's just way cool.
If ever there was a thinker who drew Heaven's appreciative eye, here was that thinker. On a slow day, an Angel Third Class (Way Cool Science division) might have reviewed Albert's next-level notes and picked up the phone. "Not bad, Albert. Not bad. Hey, come 'ere. Watch this. I'm gonna make Edison's new phonograph say 'I buried Paul.' Wait for it ... wait for it ..."
But meanwhile, back here on Earth, I need to figure out how to un-stealth my car before somebody gets hurt. One day, I'm going to leave home to drive somewhere, and just "plink" out of existence, or arrive before I leave, or side-slide into some alternate universe where, for all time, I have to watch John Wayne movies.
Actually, my little Road Reality arcade game often begins before I ever even leave home. Sometimes I might have a need to go to the grocery store, when I discover some panel truck in my apartment complex parking lot blocking my spot. Hell, maybe I'm invisible. Maybe I really have gone where no respectable woman has gone before, and no, I don't mean to a John Wayne movie.
