I’m driving behind a little car driven by an older woman.  My eyes are drawn to the middle of her dashboard to some colorful something.  A stuffed animal?  What is that?  Hmmmm.  Then I see a bright yellow post-it note that says, "Nails!" 

Is that a reminder of where she’s DRIVING TO?  I asked myself.  Sure enough, she turned and parked in front of the nail salon. 

I don’t think she was real.  I think I was just driving behind my future self. 

Everyone is sick here, and I’m starting to feel it, too.  Colds and flus I don’t mind.  I can even take barfing.  But I feel ear pain coming and I want to hide somewhere with a bottle of vicodin in one hand and whiskey in the other until it’s over.  Whimper.