
I was going to write a romantic piece about the recent divorce from my Nissan Rogue, recounting all the memorable drives I had over the last few years and pull out some sentimental slop that turns most mothers mushy. But then I thought, you don't want to hear about my car. You want to hear about the time I sat on a bus next to a giant unconscious nose ring who was biting her lower lip in the middle of a dream about date raping a chicken.
Yeah,...