Tonight was one of the nights where I felt like having a pity party. My version of a pity party involves a bag of beef jerky and a lot of talking to myself. I repeat all of my good qualities aloud, and usually follow them up with statements like "he's a fucking idiot," (because let's be honest, pity parties are usually spurred by issues with persons possessing penises.) So, while I'm driving to Target to acquire some peppered beef jerky, I'm ranting at the top of my lungs, and it sounds something like this,
"I'm a damn genius! What other girl can discuss hegemonic stability theory, and kick you in the head? I'm hilarious, and pretty, and he's going to be sorry!"
Inevitably, Pat Benatar attends the party and we dare everyone in the world to hit us with their best shot, and people better start treating us right or we're going to obliterate the battlefield, be it the one of love or academia. Pat and I park the car to pillage the store; I purchase my jerky and a Diet Mountain Dew, and eventually continue driving (still ranting and raving in between choruses.) Somewhere in the middle of "Heartbreaker" it dawned on me that people can see me while I'm driving. The pity party that I thought was private is like an exhibit on wheels. The general public is watching me chow down on peppered animal flesh, while hitting my steering wheel and screaming. Duh Kilpack, your windows aren't tinted like a limousine, and all of those times that you have cried and cruised, people are watching! I pride myself on the fact that I'm not crazy, but I suppose I'm just as beavershit crazy as the next person. Until tonight I didn't think I shared my insanity, but I guess my canibal karaoke isn't just something I share with Pat, all of rush hour traffic gets a front row seat.