Pantops Groceries

You approach 250, full of optimism, playlist queued, grocery list in hand.

The traffic light ahead blinks green. You press the gas — but it lasts only 0.7 seconds, a cruel flash of false hope. Two cars slip through. You are not one of them.

You wait.

And then it comes.

The tractor.

It lumbers into your lane with the speed of continental drift. Its wheels are as tall as your car. The driver wears an expression of eternal calm, utterly immune to the horns blaring behind him.

You tap your steering wheel. You check the time. You sigh. You watch your own reflection age in the rearview mirror. Wrinkles deepen. Your hair fades. You feel decades sliding off your life like sand through an hourglass.

Somewhere behind you, a Subaru honks. 

High on the hill, Giant Food glimmers faintly like the Holy Grail. But between you and that glowing chicken you crave lies the immovable force of farm equipment.

Your soul ages 30 years.

Do you:

• Abandon mission, slink home empty-handed 
• Persevere toward The Giant rotisserie chicken