8:34 AM at the SR 85/I-280 interchange in Cupertino.

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Wonder if I left the door unlocked on the way here. God I hope I did. I probably didn’t. God I wish I did. I hope Jared doesn’t decide to come by today. That man is crazy. Crazy like a horse. Crazy like a horse with two brains and no legs. Left three text messages last night. Each of them getting worse and worse. I don’t know what to do…

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RICH BOY SELLIN CRACK PUNK NIGGAS WANNA JACK YEA YEA YEA YEA JUST BOUGHT A CADILLAC…THROW THROW SOME D’S ON DAT BITCH. Oh shit. There’s a black guy next to me. He’s staring right at me. Did he hear me say nigga? Shit. Fucking traffic. I’m stuck. If he comes out of the car and decides to beat my ass, I have no where to run. Maybe I should just ditch the car. No. I can’t ditch the car, my dad will kill me. Wait, wait a minute, he’s doing something with his hands. Turning his hands clockwise like I’m…supposed to turn it up? He approves? FUCK YEA. HELLA HOOD UP IN THIS BITCH. Bout to stamp my shit up on that hood pass nigga!

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God I hate work God I hate work God I hate work God I hate work God I hate work God I hate work God I hate work God I hate work.

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Saleen doesn’t think I take her out enough. She keeps complaining about how Jared took his girl to The City for their anniversary. They ate at some fancy restaurant. I think it had…like…twenty reviews and four and a half stars on Yelp. Where did they eat again? I never heard of it before. Saleen really needs to understand the situation. I’m not Jared. I don’t work at Apple. I don’t have diversified bonds or hedge funds tucked away in some broker’s office. I don’t live in a three bedroom apartment in Santana Row. I don’t. I don’t know what she wants from me.

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Iamsocrackedoutonredbullandaderallgoddammitstudiedforlikefortyhoursandshitcrammeduptheasswithknowledgeifmyprofdoesntpassmei’mscrewedStanfordwillpullmyscholarshipohjesusohjesusmy heartjustcompressedtothesizeofapenny.

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Ok. Seriously, I’m done with this. I’m done. Fuck this commute, fuck this traffic, fuck my job. I swear to God, if Jared even tries to fuck with me today, I’m going to clock him, and then I’m going to quit. I swear. I don’t need this shit. I graduated Stanford for fucks sake, what the fuck am I doing at an admin job at some tech company when I came from one of the most prestigious physics program in the fucking nation? No. Fuck this. Fuck this shit. I deserve way too much to stand around and get mucked up and yelled at for some trite bullshit. I’m gonna kick his ass. I swear to God I will. I swear.

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Dispatch can take their orders and shove it up their ass, there’s no way in hell I can cut through all this traffic. Sirens and lights aren’t fucking magic, they can’t make hundreds of cars just go and fucking disappear.

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“No. NO NO NO. NO. I told him, I told him that I wanted pink…no, NO! You’re not getting me here, I specifically told and reinforced my husband to get pink flowers for…You see, I understand. I understand what you’re saying, but you’re not getting me. See, it doesn’t matter what he asked for, because he was buying them for a party that I’m running, OK? See, me, the customer, looking for a service from you, the florist, intended to get pink flower bouquets for the birthday party that the customer is setting up. Now, if the courier of my intentions just happens to make a mistake and ask for YELLOW flowers…no. NO. I’m telling YOU! I WANT TO RETURN THOSE FLOWERS AND GET PINK ONES! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?! GOD, LEARN THE LANGUAGE BEFORE YOU RUN A BUSINESS! CHING CHOW CHUNG CHONG TO YOU TOO!”

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Whoa. That white lady just threw her cell phone out the window.