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If there’s one thing I am proud to share with my fellow Americans, it’s the automobile. No place else in the world loves their cars as much as we do. Mind you, not all Americans feel this way. But I do and I don’t give a shit about those who do not share my sentiment. Another American mentality. I bought my car when I was still feeling good about my job at the unnamed home improvement palace. It’s perfect for me: a brand-new, four-door Nissan Altima. White. No aftermarket parts ‘cause I can’t afford them. My favorite thing to do is hook my iPod up to it and play my music well and loud. With the windows down, weather permitting. I hate the 15/95 so I typically take the 215. I just cruise, dancing in the driver’s seat, miming the dance moves, singing to the invisible audience in the windshield. And I forget everything outside my willing prison, for just a moment, until the song ends. I feel like such a rock star in here. Forget singing in the shower, the car is a much better venue. That’s why I hated Elena when I met her. She was singing the song in my head when I saw her for the first time. I decided to go to one of the last lounge shows on the Strip, where she was headlining. Here was this ginger-haired girl living my life. I was working at a less glamorous department in our hotel and all I wanted to do was sing. But I didn’t have the guts to audition or anything. She didn’t even look that old. Bitch was probably my age.
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