DMV - A (semi) fictional tale

Okay, Peeps, if anyone cares, I posted (about half an hour ago) whether anyone would be interested in reading my creative writing shii---stuff from last year.  Of COURSE Maid Marian immediately said yes, so for her viewing pleasure and yours, here is the first installment of my ridiculousness that was actually submitted to a professor at MSU.  (Sort of embarassing, I must admit, but whatev.)

DMV

Saturday afternoon is finally here, but do you think I’m going to be able to relax?  No.  It’s possibly the worst day to be stuck at DMV.  Division of Motor Vehicle.  It should really stand for Death of My Vacation.  Stupid registration.  How was I supposed to know that it was expired?  “Maybe you should have looked at it once or twice,” said the cop.  Stupid pig.  He’s right.  This is my fault.  I’m not admitting that to anyone, though.

Could the old lady behind the counter take any longer?  What’s the deal, twenty minutes minimum?  They should have a fast-food-drive-thru for DMV.  3 minutes or less, or your registration is free.  I think her hair is getting progressively grayer by the minute.  I know mine is.  If DMV is anything like working in the post office, I’m not surprised people say “He went postal!”.  I’d kill myself if I had to be here every day, by choice.  Jesus.  And it’s not like they have comfortable seating, oh no.  I get the privilege to stand behind Mr. Smells-Like-Old-Bleu-Cheese while he fans himself, aren’t I lucky?

Oh good, the line moved a fraction of an inch forward.   I can actually read the old bat’s name tag.  Noreen (with a smiley face).  Just wonderful, I’m one step closer to acknowledging the poly-dent that’s crusting over her pricy porcelain pincers.  I’m sure by the time I get to the front of the line, she’ll have decayed into a pile of ashes, and I’ll be forced to the back of another ridiculous line until I, too, start to decay.

Ya know what really bothers me?  The scenery.  This place is God-Awful boring and I feel like I’m in jail.  The least they could do, since they keep everyone here for hours, is to paint the walls something other than dull, depressing, gun metal gray.  Honestly, how could they stand to be here for 8 hours a day?  I’d kill myself after a day or two of this. 

Okay, I’m next.  Thank God.  Maybe I’ll be out of here before the sun goes down.  You can bet your ass I’ll never be late with my registration again… I hope.  That’s a bullshit technicality anyway.  Once your car is registered it should stay registered.  Why do you have to renew it every friggin year?  I obviously still own the car, I still pay insurance on it, why do I have to get it registered?  Previous registration should count.  If not, it should be called “re-registration”.

            “Yes, how can I help you?” Death-Warmed-Over said.  “Yes, ma’am.  I need to update my registration.  It expired,” I’m trying to be polite.  “Ok,” she said, “just sign this, give me $45 and you’re on your way.”  I look at her, stunned.  You mean this is all I have to do?  Just sign a piece of paper and hand over some money?  I had to wait over an hour for thirty seconds of polite conversation? Un-fucking-believable.