OK so I want you to imagine a hurricane in a long canyon, Peter’s screaming and the sunroof is open, all the windows are down, and the little bit of hair on his forehead, the bit he lets grow long, is flying like floss. He reaches down and twists the dial and inexplicably, infuriatingly, “This Love” leaps from the speakers. There are beer cans rolling around at my feet. Some of them are empty and some of them are full, but they’re all rolling, Adam Levine is too loud, and all I can think is holy shit I am going to die in this fucking Camaro and this is it, it really is it.
“Maybe you should slow down!” I yell, but it’s nothing, it’s to no avail. The trees fly by like slats in a prison, the car lurches onward, and we’re falling down a deep, dark well with no bottom.