Written this morning in my car:

Here I am. Ten minutes late for class and gridlocked in traffic, listening to Heather Nova and suffering from terrible penmanship... I'm writing with the notebook propped on the steering wheel. Notebook alternating journal and fan. Car is without air conditioning.
Must be a big wreck.
Heather Nova over. Sarah McLachlan's turn.
This wreck must be enormous. One eye on the road and sweat pooling in the hollow of my breastbone... it's so hot out here. There goes another county sheriff's car. A few minutes ago some unthinking fool pulled into the median and blocked the first police car on the scene. I think a lot of people gave him the finger, but I was nice.
Twenty minutes late now... I could be there in under twenty minutes. Maybe I'll turn round in the median. No, better wait.

(Wait I did. Two hours later, after turning round and taking backroads clogged like an ancient man's arteries just before his heart attack, I arrived at school with my jeans sticking to my legs, my shirt in damp wrinkles from my seatbelt... and my teacher let us out half an hour early. I was at school today for a total of ten minutes. Ten minutes.)