CONSTRUCTION SEASON

I decide to go to a friend's house, but I can't get there.

I need some stuff at the store, but I can't get there.

I head to the highway and steer toward the entrance ramp, but I can't get there.

I want to drive along the main street in front of two schools, but I can't get there.

Welcome to that wondrous New England time of year known as Construction Season.  Construction Season occurs suddenly and without warning.  One day life is rolling along as usual; the next day there are orange cones and detour signs rerouting life into convoluted misdirections.

Eventually I get where I'm going, but I have to add on 25% more time than I normally expect. 

This morning I am in a hurry to go somewhere.  I remember that the road on which I need to drive is under construction.  HA!  I am BRILLIANT.  I'll go a different way. 

Just as I am cruising along, a car pulls out in front of me.  And dies.

Well, not literally, but figuratively.  The car pulls out right in front of me and proceeds to drive 25 mph in a 40 mph speed zone.  I am stuck behind Pokey for several miles.

Hallelujah!  The car is turning ... the car is ... turning ... TURNING ...

Ohfortheloveofjesusmaryandjosephgetthefuckoutofmywaymotherfucker.

Reminder to idiot local drivers:  When you see orange cones in the road, those represent the short fuses of any and every driver stuck behind your sorry ass, so drive like the cones are going to explode at any given moment.  Drive like the wind -- and assume that each and every one of us behind you is mentally lighting cone fuses wherever you go.