So, the other day I was driving down the street thinking to myself, “I don’t normally drive on this street at this hour.” This causes me to do that thing where I think about quantum physics and parallel universes, how right now in theory there’s a me driving down Hillhurst, but there’s still a me back in the office, while yet another me never got out of bed in the morning, and one of the me’s is probably having the best day.
The Me in my current universe stopped being the one having the best day about three seconds later, when I got a ticket.
I’ve told about eight people that I’ve gotten a ticket. Friends, co-workers, my boyfriend. Some who have known me for a couple of weeks, some who have known me for about a decade. Upon hearing me say, “I got a ticket,” every single one of those jerks immediately asked, “Was it for texting?”
All smug and self-satisfied like that. Talking to me like I’m a baby. “Aw. Was it for texting?”
No, it wasn’t for texting! For your information. That was my last ticket. And that wasn’t even for texting, either, because the kind police officer gave me a warning, and instead wrote me a ticket for not having my drivers license address match my current home address. [Side note: Californians, if you haven’t done that, do it online immediately. The crap I went through to get that fix-it ticket dismissed ended up costing me more time, money and materials than if I’d gotten the fine for texting. It SUCKS.] Continue reading