And what’s even worse is that my nemesis is an inanimate object. Technically, the subject of my dissatisfaction is the absence of an inanimate object. Confused? I’ll assist by rephrasing my title.
“The absence of matter creates a volatile situation that showcase, not only my inability to control my emotion but also the fact that I have a limited intelligence coefficient.”
Or in plain English…
There is a frigging pothole on my way to work and I have a knack for driving through the damn thing every single morning!
My tyres are screaming violent slurs and the SUV is getting all big black woman with her “No you didn’t” finger waving frantically.
Potholes are inevitable realities of most third world countries, proof that there are more important things for our politicians to do than fixing roads or supplying water. Things like making empty promises and stealing our hard earned tax money. It’s our acceptance of bureaucratic inefficiency.
Potholes, for those first world friends of mine, are the result of a deteriorating road and it occurs because of entropy. Entropy being the measurement of disorder or the basic theory that everything left to their own devices, will go to shit. So a pothole is the absence of road, a little vacuum where tar used to be, a surface that is just not there.
My normal readers might be wondering why I’m vomiting words today.
The first draft of my post had so many f-bombs, it looked like the diary of a sailor or the screenplay of the Wolf of Wallstreet.
It was not considered appropriate, especially to some of the fragile and underage minds that’s reading this blog. The challenge for the writer was to find suitable words that could replace the non-kid-friendly ones and still convey the necessary emotion. It also needed to prove to my followers that I’m not as stupid as I make myself feel every morning, driving through that one god-forsaken pothole, which doesn’t move or grow during the night.
I’ve made a promise to myself that one of these days I’m going to refrain from daydreaming; or from singing along to the Script; or from planning my next meeting; or from debunking the secrets to raising teens; albeit for a milli-second, so I can swerve and miss that hole.
It didn’t happen this morning, but there’s always tomorrow.