tone. run. ouch.

An Amazon review I've written for a sports bra:

I knew buying this thing would be a gamble. This bra is ridiculously tight. Trying to squeeze my fluffy marshmallow torso into this thing is hilariously awful. Perhaps it could be marketed as an arm exfoliator; during my feeble efforts, it certainly took away some of my skin cells. Finally, securing a cellphone in a kangaroo pouch located between one's shoulderblades adds an element of annoyance unless the rhythmic slapping on the back happens to motivate you.

Every morning, I awaken from an uneventful yet oddly realistic and thus immersive dream to somehow drag myself out of bed, slap myself with a cup of coffee, rub soap on my greasy self, leisurely pet my darling cat, close my eyes and meditate on the option to attempt a morning workout, reawaken to realize I'm officially running late, utilize adrenaline rush to get to my car, sit and listen to the nagging beep of the key sitting inactive in the ignition whilst I gingerly feed the stray cats whom I call Little One and Little Scrappy Cat (taking care to scatter the treats so they don't fight), resume adrenaline rush to speed to the toll booth to sit.
... and strategize to sit. ... in the moving-est lane.
... while silently judging others...
... and applying make-up...
... sometimes listening to Bollywood...
... brainstorming ways to remind other drivers that we're frail little squishy human bodies in our low-emission tanks...
... irrationally hating all red Priuses...

-- AND I REALIZED!!!!!! .. guys... In the morning, I look for the one asshole who isn't a total jerk, cleverly weaving from gap to gap while still using their turn signal and managing not to cut people off-- I mean, you still kinda hate the guy, but you're also a little impressed and you think to yourself, "Damn, if I were smarter, I'd be following that guy. Then maybe I wouldn't be as late to work!"
... In the evening, that same feller becomes demoted to impatient asshole, and I find a stable driver who won't stop short (usually a semi or an old pick-up full of tools), and I relax behind them while allowing my crazy little wound-up multitasking brain to wander.
I mentally prepare a to-do/idea list a hundred items long, but rarely have a chance to write them down even though I keep notebook paper and a pen in my car at all times.
I park.
Catch up on messages.
Chill with the strays after making a couple of scattered treat piles.
And happily allow myself to be judged by passers-by who are convinced that I'm a homeless crazy cat witch.