it’s all fun and games until a head-on collision

Okay. The Britney Spears trainwreck freak show has gone on long enough, and I say this as someone who’s been nursing her own grotesque fascination with her for longer than I care to admit. In many ways I feel sorry for the child, disordered as she clearly is, but when she insists on driving through stop signs — 3 stop signs in a row in a residential neighborhood– and this is already after she took flak for making a left turn against a red on a dangerous intersection* with her kids in the car — could someone please take her off the road? These neighborhoods and intersections belong just as much to me as to her, as shocking as that would no doubt seem to someone with a sense of entitlement so awe-inspiring that she can’t even take family court very seriously when it (usually) doesn’t go the way she wants. But I drive these same roads, and I also drive them with my kids in the car (albeit not at 3 am in the morning).

Who knew a disintegrating pop star could be such a menace to society?

(And yes. I have been reading when I should be working on the novel instead, just as I should be working on it now, but I am within sight of the finish line, should finish within the next block of hours, so shouldn’t that count for something?)

Soon I have to take myself and my laptop out of the house. Which means I’ll be driving. May Ms Spears be passed out in a comatose huddle somewhere, and may her car keys be lost in the cushions. Or, better yet, may one of her little dogs run away with them.

* Los Angeles intersections can be the weirdest of things, a multitude of roads tangling together at unexpected angles with traffic lights thrown up in ways that make you suspect that someone was just making it up as they went along, leaving you the innocent driver to mutter, Huh?, or perhaps a heartfelt, WTF? and then just kind of watch what other cars do and feel your way through it. My sister, on one of her first visits down from Canada, watched me navigate a complicated intersection that had gone from scaring the crap out of me to becoming second nature, en route as it is to my house. There was a beat of silence as she stopped talking about whatever it is that she’d been talking about, before she said grimly, incredulously, “So what the hell was that?”

The worst car crash I’ve ever seen was at one of those intersections. The worst, because it had obviously just happened, sirens arriving and people sweeping up the glass and police directing backed-up traffic and paramedics attending one guy on the grass, sitting up and talking to them but unable to walk, while a gray-haired man remained slumped, unmoving, over the wheel of his smashed-in car while everyone, including the paramedics, ignored him, treating him as just another inanimate part of his ruined vehicle which, indeed, is what he seemed to be. It’s the one crash I’ve driven by that left me truly shaken. From the angles of the two wrecked cars, it was a left turn gone hideously wrong.

So I am not kidding.

Someone get BritBrit off the damn road.


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