Oh this is one of my favorite stories

I lived kinda far outside of the city that I worked. I drove a 2001 Pontiac Grand Prix GTP, with the 2800 supercharged engine. My commute home often had traffic, and I was tryna get home asap. I found myself behind a car in the left lane, going the speed limit, and I was like manically desperate to get around her.

Finally I have the opportunity to pass, and I roar past her, glancing over to see an older woman in a headscarf, I assume Muslim, with a flip phone wedged between her headscarf and her ear, having a lively conversation with someone. I increase my speed until she is just a dot in the background.

I come to my exit, at the bottom of which is a stoplight, and I wait: white knuckled, sweating bullets, heaving and seething behind the wheel. A car pulls up next to me at the light and look who it is: the same woman, phone to her ear, talking to whoever, oblivious to my existence.

I considered her, then considered myself, and realized I was a fucking maniac likely doing harm to myself and god knows who else, and I didn’t get anywhere any faster than someone going the speed limit.

Then and there I decided to chill the fuck out about driving.

But I miss that car

My parente had a 92 GTP. It was half the car of the later models, and I still miss it. There was just something about those Grand Prixes.