Sixteen years have gone so fast.

16 years should change things. I mean, that's what I always figured, anyway. I assumed an awkward teenage car ride would never be translatable to me nearly two decades later. Well, I've been wrong before, and I've been proven wrong again. It's still the same.

We've always known why we do this. This late night 45mph attempt at a passenger. It isn't for the destination, and it sure as fuck isn't for the ride. It's simply because it's something to do, and once you realize that, what's there to talk about?

I guess if I were to say that: that last paragraph. We might have something to talk about. We'd talk about how awkward we are and how hysterical the need for interaction is, but I won't. I won't bring that up. There's a chance you won't get it. Then, I'd probably ruin the chances that I've already ruined by thinking about these things in the first place.

Except I don't know that. I don't know I've ruined my chances. I'm too busy taking glances at the speedometer and worrying if you're bored, which I know you are. Am I going too fast? I'm not talking about the speedometer this time.