Don’t bother me when I’m texting, I can’t read those tiny screens. My music is blasting—I don’t hear you, your face looks like Part Systems Failure. Certain death? And what of it? I got stuff to do. See, this shit tells me what to do. Supposedly you think you know me, you know something about me, something I need to know? Really who are you? I can’t even imagine. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Why are you bothering me, High Tension Lines, what’s it to you? WTF. This is how I drive in snow flurries outside Gallup.