I've been neglecting writing -- so much so that I made myself a goal that I would write the whole month of July, and to date I've only written two of the eighteen days and it's been the same scene, just worded differently. I can't even believe how much I live in my own way. I am my own worst enemy when it comes to getting things done. Sheesh.
Anywho, I wanted to post what I've written, because it holds me accountable, and hopefully I still have some blogosphere friends interested in what I'm doing. If not, well I can't blame you, as I've basically been M.I.A. for far too long. If you are here... well... I love you.
My heart was pounding. I could hear the blood flowing through my ears, and my adrenaline was pumping hard. My breaths became shallow and erratic, my palms started sweating, and I could just imagine that my pupils had dilated. Can you feel your pupils dilate? Isn’t that a symptom of someone high? I would have to Google that on my down time. I was only in the midst of a panic attack, but surely with my luck, my behavior would come across suspect and I’d be taken away.
‘I can’t handle this,’ I thought to myself, struggling to control my breathing. ‘What am I even going to say?’
As the officer made his way toward the passenger’s side of my car, I quickly ran through all the excuses I could feasibly flesh out to explain my complete and total disregard of the law:
-My dog escaped.
-I have to pee.
-I only sped up to pass someone who was carelessly driving, and that’s when you saw me.
-I unbuckled my seatbelt AFTER you pulled me over, just to get to my registration.
-That wasn’t my cell phone in my hand -- that was my G.P.S.
The feeble attempts that my pathetic brain came up with weren’t even enough to get me out of detention in middle school, let alone something regarding the police. The cherries of the police car were physically hypnotizing, rotating back and forth like some psychedelic visual morphine designed to calm the wild beast.
“Good evening. License and registration, please.”
The officer spoke with a tone of command, a tone more fright-inspiring than my father after getting home from work and hearing that one of my brothers had blown up a toilet seat at school earlier in the day. I promptly handed over my documents and faced straight ahead again, hoping my obedient and submissive behavior would lend to a less severe punishment on my end.
I had to keep reminding myself to take deep breathes; it wouldn’t look good if I started to hyperventilate. Then I definitely wouldn’t be able to continue on with my plans for the evening. I’d probably be stuck in jail. As it was, the officer probably thought I was high, since he’d just asked me a question twice. Funny how your brain can process that even when it’s not paying attention.
“What brings a girl from New Jersey all the way out here to Marshall’s Creek at this hour? Surely it isn’t the Candle Factory at this time of night,” he says with a small chuckle to himself, as if he’d just told the most hilarious inside joke all day. Probably I was the first person he’d seen all night in this little town that modernity seemed to have left behind.
“Honestly,” I said, more under my breath than anything, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
If you made it this far, what do you think? Should I continue?