Bah, paranoia got the best of me. No more picture, so instead, enjoy the following:

So I got my license today, on the 20th of July,
the year 2006.

The process of acquiring this license did not go smoothly,
much like really anything else in my life.

Let’s recount what happened today.


Got up. Jumped in the shower, dressed, and had a bowl of
Raisin Bran (it rules).


Left for Edison Inspection Station.


Arrive at Edison Inspection Station and sit waiting for an


Inspector arrives. “Michelle” looks over my documents and
catches a hitch in my permit, which states that I must drive with glasses. Of
course, I left them at home. Michelle gives me two options: go home and get
glasses, or get vision rechecked at adjacent DMV facility. I choose the


Get in line at Vision Check.


Admitted to Vision Check. I am asked to read the first
line on the screen. I cannot decipher shit. I think that this text is
impossible to read and merely a mean spirited joke. I read some shit I
hallucinated to be in the boxes, “A B C, H Q D” The African American state
employee says, “Look here, son. Read the first line. There’s 4 letters in
each box, and 12 letters on the line.” Funny, in the blur, I could only make
out what I thought to be 3 letters in each box. Upon learning that each box
contained 4 letters, I concentrated my eyes as hard as I could, and in what I
can only assume a Godsend, managed to make out the 12 letters to the best of
my ability. The state employee’s response verbatim: “You barely made it. I’m gonna let it go. Here you go, son. Go pass
that road test.” I felt like that kid in the movies that needs to overcome an
insurmountable obstacle in order to achieve his goal and then has some dude
tell him (generically), “Go achieve that goal.” I am fucking ecstatic.


Line up again at Edison Inspection Station, waiting for an


Michelle returns for a second go around. Everything is in
order. We proceed to take the test.


Left turn, right turn, left turn, right turn. And then the
“final challenge:” parallel parking between two cones. I accomplished this
deftly. “Brooklyn” style, in which the space for parking is so small, you
have no room to dick around jerking back and forth, you just back up in one
motion. I didn’t even complete the maneuver before she told me to K-turn and
get out of there.


We get back to the station. Michelle says I pass. Kickass.


Park at DMV facility. Go to Reception. Fill out license
application and provide various forms of identification to insure the DMV
that I am not a terroristic illegal immigrant.


Sit with thumb jammed firmly up ass for 40 minutes. Yes,


My “number” is called up, I provide ID paraphernalia, $6
dollars, and get photographed.


My name is called, and I collect my shiny new plastic
license, sporting handsome holograms and TWO even more handsome photographs
of my face. In typical fashion, I am not wearing the customary American
toothy grin.


Drive home a licensed man.


Arrive home a licensed man.


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