I'm driving along the other day, it's a nice day, I have the windows open, and I pass a skunk. Whooeee, it's pungent.
So I, of course, change the radio station.
It's been interesting to see the reaction of non-synesthesiacs, hehehe.
So again, I’m driving along, and I have my hair down, which is unusual. However, when I do, I find I get a lot of attention from certain types of fellow drivers (usually passels of gardeners yelling in Spanish) because now I’m the Hot Chick In The Red Sports Car. Hair up: fussy old librarian begging to be cut off; hair down: apparently, I Must Have You Because You Yell Unintelligible Things At Me. Who knew life was a set of clearly defined roles determined solely by whether I happened to have a hair clip handy or not?
Today, it’s Haile Selassie next to me--you know, the former king of Ethiopia deposed and I think eaten by Idi Amin, used to wear this little leopard fez--driving some very expensive BMW. No leopard fez, which is a shame, because I have a weakness for leopard, but he is grinning like crazy. And I grin back, because it’s a good day. Ok, so he’s weird, possibly insane, he has no chance in hell with me, but he thinks I’m the Hot Chick In The Red Sports Car, and who could hate that? He waves his cell phone at me, I shake my head no. How the hell am I supposed to know what his number is anyway? I'm hot, so I'm psychic? He motions me to pull over with a very big grin, but I let him know I’m having none of that and race off.
And then I think, "There’s that Nigerian general who’s always emailing me. Bet he wants his 20 million back.”
I don’t know if anybody else on earth would get that, but it makes me spit milk out my nose.