I think about driving. I think about it every single day. I think about climbing behind the wheel of a car and turning the key. I think about cruising down Highway 1 with the windows down, and the sea breeze blowing my hair. I want to drive, and like all my friends who don’t drive, I think I’m a good driver. That very thought makes me laugh, and I wonder when and why I have became like my non-driving friends, thinking we have skills with absolutely no practice. We are a pack of idiots.
The other thing I wonder about is why doesn’t the DMV revoke my license. How many forms have my neurologists filed with that bureaucracy? I wonder too what the docs write on the revocation form? “Vistadenada has epilepsy, and turns into the Statue of Liberty at the most inopportune moments. REVOKE her license. ASAP. Do it. Do it now before she reeks havoc.” Perhaps they tack on: “It is a privilege, not a right. I am a doctor. You are not.” The DMV still won’t revoke my license. They won’t revoke it even when I tell them I’m an epileptic. They just look at me over the desk. I stare back. They give me a license that I put in my wallet. It is the great temptation. I’m not good with temptations. To stop myself from the temptation of the license in my wallet, I imagine running over a nun in a crosswalk, habit flying. I imagine splattering a baby in a stroller. I think about hitting a class of third graders on the sidewalk, waiting on a school bus. I imagine child body parts flying like birds up in the sky. “We cannot reattach his ear. You have mutilated school children.”
Then, I think about cake because that is my other greatest temptation, probably greater than driving. I think about white cake with white icing. I think about birthday cake. I think about wedding cake, when done correctly is the best. Done incorrectly, you might as well spit it into your cloth napkin, and walk out the reception hall door. “Your wedding cake was crap, Missy. Get a real baker, not your cousin.”