Picture this, the New American Rockwellian: Two cars entangled in a ghetto-residential parking lot. The mouths of their owners agape as they pull on their hair and inspect the damage to their vehicles. The instigator, a white hatchback ScoobyDoo with a legally blonde driver, covers her pink puffy trout-mouth with cupped palm, as if to say "like, oopsie". The schlamazel, (our hero) bends over the bowling-ball sized dent in her precious, precious fender and her face grows magenta. Sharp lines appear on and jut out about her face, indicative of an anger more Frank Miller than Norman Rockwell. Some jackass from a nearby patio, obstructed by tree branches, calls out a remarkably unhelpful opinion as the drivers, both good and bad alike, exchange information.
Later, at around 3am, this vital contact information would liberate itself from the confines of the newly smashed-in dreamcar and blow onto the Jersey Turnpike, somewhere around Fort Dix.
Even later, said schlamazel's cell phone would make a break for freedom by leaping from her pocket, only to meet its demise in the toilet of the Fishkill Courtyard by Marriott's room 125. Three air bubbles escaped while it was submerged, as if to say "good bye cruel 10,000 text-messages-per-month world!". (Read: If you need me, email's now the only way to go).
While I won't be making any calls nor free of car repair payments for a long, long time, there still remains great hope of celebrating this Independence day by quitting my job; as I've got two solid offers on the table and an interview tomorrow!
Oh, and a 101 degree fever.