I imagine, because I am paranoid, that you are sitting around right now, reading the paper, thinking, "Man!" (why do you feel the need to make this exclamation in your thoughts? I don't understand. Perhaps you should seek help.) "All that Kim Shable does is complain. She doesn't like Homecoming. She doesn't like Halloween. She's obviously some sort of subversive fascist pig. What does she like? I mean, aside from monkeys, thongs, Smart Card men, and pro wrestling?"

A lot of things. But most of them, like my obsession with Hugh Grant and 'Mama's Family', are too embarrassing to mention here.

However, I'm not ashamed to tell you that I have a deep and profound love of driving. An almost... dirty love of it. Okay, well, maybe not dirty. Dingy. But not dirty.

I am, I suspect, the last person you would expect to be a freeway fanatic. It took me three tries to pass my driver's test (but I think my first two instructors were under orders from my father and/or the government of Andorra to fail me. It's all very complicated.) I drive a little Mediterranean (read: lime) green Tracer with all the extra added oomph of a lazy mule someone gave malt liquor to as a Prom night stunt. And there's always the little matter of the fact that, at any given time and on any given road, no matter how many times I've been there, I have absolutely no idea where I am in relation to the school, my house, the equator, or the sun.

And, truth be told, I'm not really a very good driver, either. I'm a brake stomper. There, I've admitted it. And that's half the battle, right? And I make broad right turns. But I've never killed anyone. As far as I know.

Really, the only reason I like driving my car, aside from the obvious extra added bonus of getting from point A to point B, is the fact that it's really just one big shiny portable rolling karaoke fun wagon.

That's right. I'm a car singer. To me, there's absolutely nothing better than cruising down the road singing "Closing Time" at the top of your lungs, and perhaps thrashing about a bit (if you're on an open road surrounded by corn, where no one but the hogs can see you making a fool of yourself) during the "I know who I want to take me home" part.

In fact, if a song is particularly moving, like, say, "Mony Mony" or something... I butt dance. Admit it-- you do it, too. Everyone, at one point in their life, has butt danced in their car. I would bet you a hundred thousand dollars right now that the President sits in his limousine and butt dances to "Hail to the Chief" whenever he thinks the driver isn't looking. And I guarantee that even the Pope has butt danced in the Pope-mobile, probably to "Respect," which I think could induce butt dancing in almost anyone, up to and including Margaret Thatcher, who as far as I know has never done anything even remotely concerning her butt.

So, I may not know my way around, and I may not have the greatest car in the world. But I love to drive it. If you ever see me out on the roads, looking a little confused, don't try to stop me. I'm probably just looking for a place to flail around like a maniac to "Closing Time."