My car is a police state. Not quite one of those police state cars that won’t let you start without your seatbelt on (too old for that), but a police state car none the less. As I listen to my mixed tapes it keeps butting in to make me listen to the traffic updates on the local radio station, aka Frontal Lobotomy FM (sample phone-in topics: What happens when you microwave crisps?, Should immigrants be allowed have mobile phones?, If drug dealers are giving our children free hard drugs to get them hooked does that mean if I go back to primary school I can get my heroin free?). Sorry, where was I. My car constantly wants me to hear what Frontal Lobotomy FM has to say about the traffic near Asda and I don’t want to know. La la la la la can’t hear you. I don’t want to know. Even if there is a thousand-foot-tall car-eating North Korean robot blocking the road outside Asda, I still don’t want to know.
If you won’t let me kill myself the way I see fit, I’ll die trying.
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