wickedflea | (no subject)

As usual, I was running late this morning. I grabbed my coffee and my backpack, locked the door, and dashed out of the building. I unlocked the car, got in, and turned the car on. I looked at my dashboard clock and thought, "8:18 -- cool, that gives me just about enough time to -- wait a minute. I take the bus to work . . ."

Yes, folks, eight days short of one year working at the press, and with very rare exceptions such as having visitors in town who could drop me off, I've taken the bus to work every single morning. And today I ran out and got in the car as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

What could I do? If I had gotten out of the car and gone back through the building to the bus stop, I would have probably been too late for the bus. So I drove to work.

As it turned out, I was able to get a killer parking spot in a twelve-hour zone and had enough quarters to last me 'til 12:40. And I was thinking about going home for lunch to get my cat permission form signed anyway. So it's all good™, baby. It's all good™.