On the way to work, giant black Mercedes. Woman with nails, arm hanging from the window, limp wrist, cigarette wedged between two fingers. So blase about it all that it’s all she can do to muster up the energy to tap the ash from the tip. When the cigarette has burned to the root she flicks the butt to the pavement and rolls her window up. See, and things like that stick in my craw. Fortunately, as she tries to skip ahead into the fast lane–it’s the same type of person who does that, the person of unquestioning privilege–a working-man’s row of flatbed testoster-trux reFUSes to let her in, fairly pushing her back into her own lane. She doesn’t complain however. Because deep down she knows what she did wrong, and she hates herself for it, and tonight she’ll experience diarrhea.