Memoirs of a Fat Girl

I am driving Joey, and at a four-way stop with my sister. We are turning left off a one-way street, onto another one-way that leads to a highway ramp. To my right is a car, to my left is another car, and ahead of me is a cable service truck.

Oli likes how I drive, but being the (extremely bossy) lovechild of Mario Andretti and Michael Schumacher, she also likes to direct. Never argue with Oli if it’s driving related, or she’ll run you down. “Dude to your left came first, so you have to wait.”

Duh. “Yeah, I figured. But what about that guy to the right?”

“What about him?”

“We both got here at the same time.”

“So what, just go.”

“But…”

“JUST GO.”

Holy forceful. I take my turn, but still have to ask, “Why did I get to go first?

“Because you did.”

“But…”

“You go first because you’re the girl, and fuck it.”

Well, then. Who am I to argue with sound advice?