I want a Ferrari. Don’t get me wrong, I bike to school and recycle, but I really want a Ferrari. You can blame Farris Beuller, but my respect for cars has made me very serious about the whole driving experience. But what they don’t tell you is that the world, the big one right beyond that blind intersection at Bryant Rd. and the back parking lot, is that it’s full of obstacles that prevent you from actually driving that Ferrari. No, the rule book didn’t mention that one needs to pass a permit test at a place called a DMV (who knows what that stands for) in order to get the Ferrari. For me,I thought I had survived the apocalypse, but apparently failed permit tests are just as world destructing as aliens or fire-blots. I say permit tests as in plural because I am Carly and I am a survivor of not one but two failed permit tests.

I was all ready to pass my permit test and breath in the sweet, rejuvenating scent of leather seats and a the fake pine scent that can only come from a tree-shaped air freshener. I was prepared, confident. On the car ride over my mom prepped me with questions from my friends’ permit tests and reminded me that the DMV is not the happiest place on earth. “I’ll bring the sunshine and make all those people feel content and filled with happiness knowing they helped me get my permit,” I responded as I gnawed on my dark chocolate lindor truffle. Apparently, chocolate is helps to stimulate the brain, and needless to say I was prepared.

We didn’t make an appointment but I’ve always considered myself a special person. I am also a very impatient person, so when we got in the line trickling out the door I was a little hurt by the DMV’s insensibility to my high status. I mean, hadn’t someone called to let them know I was arriving to take my first steps into womanhood? After two hours of waiting, we made it to the beautiful interior of the DMV. The cramped building was dim and everyone seemed to move in slow motion. By then my chocolate buzz had begun to wear off and I started hallucinating, picturing the DMV workers as sloths. I had a rising urge to jump over the counter, running to each person and shouting, “COFFEE? DO YOU NEED COFFEE?” It may have been a better alternative to the annoying, sing song flight attendant’s voice calling out numbers. At least my shouting wouldn’t be interrupted every 25 seconds by a gong announcing the aggravating computer lady.The highlight from 3 o’clock to 4 o’clock was when the lady at window 12 asked me if people ever called me “iCarly”

Finally, after taking my test and searching for someone to grade it, the nice manager took the last minutes of his shift to fail me. “I’m sorry. Return in 7 days and you can take the permit test again.” I’m sorry, but wtf?

“There must be a mistake. Are you using the right answer key?” I responded. I swore to myself I would not return to such a horrid place and endure such pain ever again.

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