Taking Uber to the airport turned out to be a mistake this time. The driver, a middle-aged chicken farmer, turned out to be into extreme heat and massive amounts of perfume. The car was a cloyingly smelly sauna. And then he got lost, so the trip lasted twice as long.
I’d spent half the night watching a TV show about serial killers, and after the car ended up in an abandoned junkyard, I vividly remembered several of the show’s episodes that started just like that.
When I finally got out of the car, I was so nauseous, I had to eat an ice-cream to avoid throwing up.
God has punished me for the sin of sloth.