Usually I start Monday off with a rap banger in the car, a la Office Space. It helps me feel rebellious, like I’m not a stop and go driver stuck behind a taco cart on the westbound 10. But this morning I started slow, easing into the week with “End of the World.”
Sometimes that’s what driving to work in the morning feels like for me; the end of the world. It’s not some frantic, electronic pulsing heartbeat that every action movie trailer since Prometheus has adopted. Rather, this folky, Southern country blues that really melts me into my worn, heated leather seats. A cup of coffee and the gift of acceptance.
“They say it’s the end of the world, but I’m not sure that I mind.”