It’s nothing personal; I just find it hard to eat when someone is talking at me about torque, power-to-weight ratios, and things of that nature. I’m interested in cars, but only in the most cursory sense. I barely passed my license exam, and my driving has been compared to that of a quadriplegic with nothing left to live for. I deal with heavy traffic through heavy sedation, and I’m not allowed to operate a vehicle outside of the contiguous United States. When someone tries to have a sophisticated conversation with me about cars, I curl up in a ball and die a little. Other than that, I’m the perfect person to talk about cars with after I’ve finished my sandwich.

Naturally, I’ve had trouble because of my unique driving style. I like to take things at a reasonable pace that is far too reasonable for the police to understand, so we’ve had our issues. I openly admit to my faults, but sometimes, the problem is on their end. One time, I got pulled over and the police officer asked to see my license and registration. They really need to get it together. One day they take away my license, the next they’re asking to see it again.

The officer didn’t seem very happy when I told him about his mistake, so I’ll be taking my bike everywhere until they get it sorted out. He mentioned something about a court date, but I wasn’t really listening — I was slightly drunk at the time.