I was driving to work in the fast lane, freeway wide open. As I approached this white car it doesn’t move over. While I signaled to pass it on the right I observed two internal phenomena: a surge of adrenaline and a twitch in my left middle finger; both acting entirely without my consent. As if two daemons standing behind my eyes — one for my middle finger and one for my adrenal glands — pass their own judgments, subverting my authority. I should flip you off, Flip-Off-Daemon.

I finish this thought as I’m passing and look over. Obese. Red hair. Cut short. And Spiked. ON HER PHONE.

This disturbing imagery produced two more self-motivated characters: Mr.-Fist-Who-Punches-Horn and Flip-Off-Daemon’s twin brother who lives on my right hand. All four ordered an attack. Full scale mutiny.

The thought occurred to me: how many criminals are behind bars right now because they obeyed the orders of impulse? They joined the charge of their nervy, reckless, inward storms? As commander-and-chief, I wish I could sack some of my fight-or-flight strategists, architects of this road rage. I’m sure on a stressful day those tyrants are impossible to defy.

Still, get off the phone and out of the fast lane Sea Witch.