Sliding down the driveway in slippers with your arms flailing and your neighbors are watering their begonias. Ah! Your knees won’t stop kicking. You’re playing air-guitar in your underwear and slapping the arms off of your lounge-chairs. You’re smiling. It’s that morning and you have that highway sound in your lungs. Your neighbor looks over, bemused. You stretch that smile a half-mile wider and yell, “Fuck, we’re good! We’re so good. We’re better than anybody has ever been and you have one option: get in the fucking car and scream!” [Maybellene!]