Don’t touch me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t even walk within my four-foot perimeter. I just spent the entire day hurtling down the road in a 100-degree hotbox with a co-worker. No a/c. No open windows. No mercy. And let’s just say I’m a tad bit testy.
As I sat there, with droplets of sweat plummeting down the peaks and valleys of my backfat, the seatbelt was working overtime, doing its damndest to strangle me. It was a treacherous bitch, this seatbelt, reeling in and locking whenever I gave it a little slack. At one point, I made the mistake of leaning back in my seat, allowing the belt to completely retract into its housing.
So there I was, stuck in this ridiculous recline position, unable to lift my head from the headrest without crushing my larnyx. Did my co-worker see the struggle ensuing in the passenger seat? I determined that no, he did not. For if he caught even so much as a glimpse of me, I’m quite confident he would’ve pulled the car over, put a pencil in my mouth and called 911.
Now, any normal person would’ve undone the seat belt, pulled it out and simply repositioned it. But no, not me. I was all self-conscious, worried that maybe I had stretched the seat belt to its limits. I silently wondered if the seatbelt did this to all who occupied the passenger seat. I concluded that no, it didn’t. This here was just one more example of how the engineers of the world plot and plan to make us fat fucks suffer.