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The great thing about gas stations is gas station attendents. If they aren't acne-covered teenage boys who are too busy staring at my cleavage as I fill up my car, they're apathetic. Most gas stations don't even go after people who pull away from the pump without paying.

Needless to say, I do it all the time with my pink covertible. Who cares, really? What's twenty dollars to Exxon? Besides, I wouldn't dream of paying for what little gas I need for my hybrid.

I haven't left the park in ages. I needed to.

It's ironic that for all my talk about the effect I have on other people, I've managed to make myself itch with restlessness. I wish I could just go kill someone. That used to cheer me up. Then I think about my children.

I just have to wait for February. When the sun still hasn't returned and everyone goes to kill what little flowers are around for bouquets. By then I'll be over this momentary squeamishness. When it comes to adults.

I'm speeding. But when don't I speed? I drive dangerously because on nights like this, nothing really matters. Except the icy wind in my hair. I'm dressed warmly but I still am numb from the cold. The images of dead children being shoved back further into the darkest of the dark corners in my mind as I drive faster and faster.

Plants enjoy quiet solitude. They take it slow. They grow decade by decade. They can wait. They can ignore everything but sun and water.

I don't. Not as much as I pretend to. When I'm driving this car, it's almost like I'm Pamela Isley again.

Whoever she was.

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toxicodendron_radicans

February 2014

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