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Sam and I spent the morning at the Florida Department of Highway Safety & Motor Vehicles.

The entire morning.

I think at one point time actually stood still. And for a period of forty-five minutes, they didn't call a single number.

Not. One. Single. Number.

The woman sitting to my right kept leaning over and saying to Sam, "Your mother is so mean for bringing you here. Isn't she mean? Isn't she?"

The woman sitting to my left had toenails that were a half-inch long. She'd filed them into sharp, knife-like points.

The sixteen year old girl across the lobby was dressed in Britney-inspired slut wear. Every fifteen minutes she'd duck outside for a cigarette break, each time accompanied by her lout of a boyfriend, who kept his hand firmly planted on her ass at all times.

And then when they finally got to me, and processed my application, and handed me my shiny new laminated license, I discovered that I now possess what might be the worst driver's license photograph of all time. I look maniacal in it, like the kind of evil super villain who hatches plots to take down Batman.

But then on the way home they played Chains of Love by Erasure on the radio, so the day wasn't a total loss.

Posted 07 July 2004 at 11:27 AM