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Temporary License

The first time really wasn’t my fault. Well, maybe it was, but the second and third times were completely unavoidable on my part.

Maybe it’s a sign, I mused. Maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe I just need more time. Time is a curious thing. Sometimes it’s like a train we’re constantly trying to catch, while other times it’s a weight -- dragging us down as we watch the world go by.

It’s me versus myself, and the fierce game of tug-o-war shows no signs of letting up. My first attempt, swimming in a pool of naïveté, I forgot to check the office hours. This led to a two-week hiatus of any plausible endeavors. The second try, in my continuing streak of absentmindedness, the culprit was a nonexistent social security card. After my week in purgatory, a third effort proved the most intriguing. Sticking my face into some sort of medieval torture device, I found myself face to face with the terror of all terrorists; blocked letters. I strained my eyes, squinting until the letters became enshrouded with a blurry fog. My mother was right; computers really do ruin your eyesight.

It seems I’m losing to myself 3-0.

The second round begins. I glare at my new pointed nemesis, refusing to surrender in this grudge match of wits. Needless to say, I make the first move, edging up slowly to the peak. After about five seconds, the chalk-white lines begin to blur together, one of the numerous underhanded tactics of the spineless orange cones. The white lines twist and turn, morphing into conics in my disconcerted mind. 2 o’clock, 6 o’clock, then 3 o’clock. Or is it 12 o’clock, 3 o’clock, then 9 o’clock? A sudden jerk and thud tells me it was the latter.

Fooled once again, I bow down to the superior player.

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