on the road home....

Tumbleweeds commit suicide across the highway
as I watch from the indifferent side of the windshield
while spitting sunflower shells into an empty cup

The caffeine finally kicks in at mile marker 142
and I know I have two good hours
before I'm gonna need another fix

language

I always think people from other countries speak so much cooler than myself. Their voices take on a much more melodic quality, accenting all the right syllables, trilling their consonants, clicking their tongues. I get lost in the sounds sometimes I forget to really listen to what they are saying.

Me? I think I sound like a cow would if it ever learned the English language.

the thumbs down guy

Some mornings on my way to work, I meet a guy in my car at a stoplight. He is in his own car, facing me across the road. Mid-sixties, glasses, gruff exterior. I don't know this guy, but for some reason, he thinks he knows me. Because when he drives by, he lifts up his black, leather gloved hand, and gives me a thumbs down. Now this has happened about six times in the last year. At first, it totally freaked me out. I thought this guy might follow me, find me, torture me, whatever. I even considered following him, but a friend told me that might not be a good idea considering he might be bipolar or psychotic and kill me. And since I'm not too big on dieing, I nixed the idea.

The last time he did this was one week ago. Strange as it sounds, this time I was strangely comforted by the greeting. Because I thought, someone out there dislikes me, for whatever reason. And I'm okay with that. Because everyone needs someone to hold them in check. Anytime I think I'm all that, or feel like I'm the man, or that I can do anything, I think about the thumbs down guy. And it humbles me instantly. It puts me right back into my place. It keeps me accountable.

So, thank you, mr. thumbs down guy. Keep it up. Or down. Whatever.