Oh, I'm sorry. You've mistaken me for someone who gives a shit.

I had to get my drivers license picture taken today. I figured I'd go on my lunch hour. It's a Wednesday, the eve of a snow storm...I put the time frame at about 15 minutes, tops. HA.

Silly me. The thought never crossed my mind that the dregs of society would be out in abundance, waiting for their drug dealers to wake up. Karma slapped my ass again.

I walked in and had to take a number. I was 47. They were calling 41 when I sat down. Not terrible, I thought. This should go by quickly. And then White Trash Mom sat next to me with her bastard child, Richard. Richard was all of about 18 months old and looked like a little girl. White Trash Mom made it very clear how involved she was in her child's life, leading me to believe she wasn't involved at all. She kept mentioning "Daddy," also leading me to believe she had no idea who the father was. She had the kind of face only Stevie Wonder could love. I disliked her immediately.

What should have been a 10 minute ordeal turned into 30 minutes. As I waited, I watched as Old Lady # 1 sat in front of the blue curtain and asked the picture-taker if she could make sure her CANE wasn't in the shot. A cane? Are you freakin' kidding me?! And she's allowed to operate a 1-ton piece of Death on Wheels?? It didn't help that the whole time I was also forced to listen to: "Richard! Are you excited to see daddy? RICHARD! You're not acting as confident as you usually do!" (I swear to God, she called the kid out on his lack of confidence.) That's when the realization hit me that Richard would probably grow up to be that meathead guy who picks bar fights with girls. Thanks, White Trash Mom. I can only hope I don't have kids of my own for another 3 years, to ensure our children don't end up in the same high school.

Number 45 was up. So close, and yet, so very far away. I couldn't leave now. I had so much invested!

So there goes #45. I'll have to guess, but I'd say she was no less than 1 billion years old. And then her questions started: Should I keep my sweater on or take it off? What about my glasses? Can you take that picture again? Can I re-sign my signature, I don't like how the "K" came out....

Between Richard and #45, I firmly believe I was in Hell, or at the very least, Purgatory. Either way, it was apparent that I pissed in God's Cheerios this morning.

Long story longer, a half hour later I finally had my new license along with a new disrespect for human life, and I was on my way back to the office. Thank the good Lord this only happens once every 4 years. I think next time, I'll show up and pass out condoms and Depends.