Hey, I just found this.

It's the kind of bad writing I love to read:

JUNE 2005
Through my bloodshot eyes I tried to decide whether the hair on the back of his head was freshly showered or oily. I don't really know if it would have changed my opinion of him, either seemed plausible. His car adhered to the strictly road. Maybe it was the manual transmission but it felt like no matter how he drove or how much he attempted to show off the car was glued to the road like a play-car attraction at a fair. The kind you can drive but whose actual course is determined by a guardrail underneath the car that prevents it from going more than two inches wayward in either direction. I wasn't hung over but every bump felt like a mountain and I swear I could feel the earth shake when he jiggled the transmission. It was a nervous habit of his. He once told me I made him nervous, though I couldn't figure out why. I didn't think anything about me was intimidating but people are strange like that and I'm sure it made sense to him the way elephants are terrified of mice.
We drove past all the places we had been the night before. The coffee shop, the park, the show venue, every thing looked different in the daylight. They were just places, artificial physical distinctions composed of mortar, brick, and a few electrical wires. I thought it funny how people could attach so much meaning to things that didn't really exist. Damn it. I had forgotten my sunglasses at the apartment and knew immediately that it would be weeks or possibly months before I saw them again.