This is how it goes.

You'll be out on a bagel run (two poppy, two plain, side of cream cheese) and you'll start to cry. You won't know why and you'll be embarrassed. You'll park on the shoulder and attempt to pull yourself together before the state cops show up and force you to explain what, exactly, you were up to. They'll understand, I'm sure, but that doesn't mean you'll want to bare your heart to a man in an extremely stupid hat.

So you'll try to calm down while under the threat of a strictly enforced red and blue flashing deadline. You'll turn on the radio, flipping stations and creating sentences from the fragments of shock jocks, detergent commercials and bitchy whining in a variety of languages. You'll play with your automatic seat adjustments, hazard lights and window controls; if it's a button, you'll push it.

You'll take deep breaths, maybe light a cigarette. Play some light jazz. Write a poem. And when you're back in control of your emotions and the heat has fogged the windows so thoroughly that you can't see your windshield wipers let alone the road, and once the shaking has subsided enough that you're not convulsively turning the wheel back and forth, you'll pull back into the flow, obeying all local traffic laws and signaling appropriately until you're swallowed up by the fog.

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