This Fucking Gal
The gal with LED headlights aimed at judgment day
Her lights are somehow above your trunk line, inside your mirrors, and directly in your bloodstream, but she still drives around like everyone else is overreacting.
Your retinas did not consent to this spotlight.
The gal with LED headlights aimed at judgment day. Your retinas did not consent to this spotlight.
Her lights are somehow above your trunk line, inside your mirrors, and directly in your bloodstream, but she still drives around like everyone else is overreacting.
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This Fucking Gal
Her lights are somehow above your trunk line, inside your mirrors, and directly in your bloodstream, but she still drives around like everyone else is overreacting.
Keep going
Same species, different habitat.
One hand on the wheel, one hand on the wand, zero interest in your survival.
This fucking gal is doing her makeup at freeway speed like the shoulder is her glam team.
Traffic is moving and she is using the rearview mirror like a vanity light, drifting half a lane at a time while everyone around her becomes unpaid stunt support.
A water bottle on each one, like little tiny flags of occupation.
This fucking gal has occupied three machines with one towel and a dream.
She bounces between stations every seven minutes and gets offended if you touch the one with the Stanley cup on it because apparently that means reserved.
Zone 6 energy. Zone 2 positioning.
This fucking gal lined up with three bags and a boarding group that was not even close.
She lines up before her group is called, blocks the scanner lane with a tote ecosystem, and acts stunned when the gate agent sends her right back to the sea of seats.