This Intersection is a Metaphor
Ah, the red light. A glowing reminder that somewhere, in some forgotten corner of the universe, someone still believes in fairness. And here you are, first in line, the unwitting protagonist of this grim little play, parked obediently on the crumbling edge of societal order while you wait for a green light that never seems to come. Meanwhile, the car next to you—a rust-patched sedan with more dents than dignity—decides to rewrite the script. With a roar of rebellion, questionable timing, and zero regard for common decency, it threads the needle through the intersection. No cops, no cameras, no cosmic comeuppance. Just a lonely honk trailing in their wake like the death rattle of an idea that once mattered.
As if on cue, a new contender rolls up beside you; their face a living meme of impotent rage, equal parts Greek tragedy and YouTube rant. They’ve seen the rule-breaker’s triumph and are now marinating in the existential vinegar of being the sucker who didn’t. You can feel their envy radiating through the glass, dense enough to sauté in. Because nothing stings more than watching someone slip through the traffic jam like a grease-soaked weasel while you’re still pinned under the suffocating weight of your own patience.