I have a favorite place to stop off of Highway 93 where I breathe in the majestic scenery and exhale my problems into the valley below the Flatirons. I’ve never been able to get a grip on how humans rightfully handle anxiety, but through years of stressful situations, I’ve found that this particular breathing exercise helps me cope. Or at least feel the peace of the monstrous mountains towering ahead of me. I watch my problems flow out of my mouth and dissipate into the vast valley below. (Between drags of my cigarette. One problem at a time.)

On a warm day, I pulled off into the gravel inlet to take in the beauty of the mountainous beasts when a woman suddenly scampered from behind a pack of wildflowers, pantsless, wrapped a tarp around her bare ass and dove into her car.

I don’t think she was using the loo, as personal experience has proven that urination and defecation can be executed with drawers around the ankles. Plus, why pee at a lunch destination hotspot at high noon on a Tuesday when there’s super-fancy Shell station not 1 mile north?

Maybe she was ecosexual-ing on the hillside. Taking genital selfies. Shaving her furburger ahead of a blind date at Rocky Flats.

Who knows? But while she squirted her cargo across Doudy Draw, I reassessed finding a new spot to dump my mental load.

Shared rides blow

To save cash, I often book a shared Lyft or Uber. Sure, my ride may zip across the greater metro for an extra 45 minutes, but I save like $2.50. Suck on that, bank account.

That’s not my major bleat, though. It’s the humans who share the ride with me. (I won’t say the “M” word, so chill tf out, millennials.) My science has determined that it’s generally coddled folk who fall in the age range of 18-34 who treat the other humans in the car with disrespect.

“Hi, how are you?” I said to Dude who got in the back of the ’01 Civic beater with me. (Lyft and Uber clearly don’t vet cars anymore.)

Dude completely ignored me, plugged his headphones in and stared out the window the entire ride. Another ride, a girl joined me in the back of the cigarette-stained ’79 General Lee (or the like), and I said the same thing.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t feel like having a conversation right now,” she said.

“Neither do I,” I said. “I was greeting you.”

I’ve ridden among plumes of vape smoke after the driver gently asks the riders to abstain and endured as people blab loudly on their phones. One dude deep-throated a giant burrito in the back seat and got hot sauce all over the upholstery. One guy was reading his Bible out loud and singing hymns.

Do what you will in these cars, that’s between you and the driver. But when I greet you, acknowledge that a human spoke to you. You’re sharing cozy space. Fucking say hi back.

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