Beyonce…

I told her that I could not drive, still she insisted I took the driving seat of her Rolls Royce car, “car, more like a tank” I scorned with a dry humorous expectance. She said “what” with zero to no enthusiasm for my sentiment whatsoever. So I started the motor and began to drive. It was steady on the way out of the mansion for a while, jus cruisin. We were soon approaching a lit up area from out of the dark bush surrounded little roads of the British countryside. I turned back to her and said “Is that a lampost?”, she kinda grunted at me, impatient to get some food for our traditional secret picnic somewhere in a buttercup field, blessed by the heated sun which is increased by joys of global warming, where I can sit under the shade of an apple tree as my white naked skin would get burnt in under 5 minutes. Then a thunderous thud and the whole tank of a luxurious and expensive car going into a brief earthquake movement later. Steadily cruising on, I was looking forward again, after a quick look in the door mirror I looked forward. “Well it was” I said, hoping the law would not find out we carried on as if nothing had ever happened in blissful yet apathetic silence…

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