Damn it, my head is splitting! The roundabout confusion strikes again. One minute I’m heading north, the next I’m somehow barreling towards Turlock. These roundabouts, I swear, are like Dante’s Inferno, designed by M.C. Escher.
I have been sucked into the hellish maw of the mother of all roundabouts. Entering with the naïve optimism of a freshman on orientation day, I’m soon plunged into vehicular purgatory.
First lap, and I miss the exit. No problem, I think, I’ll catch it on the next go-round. But by the second lap, the other drivers’ honking crescendos into a symphony of impatience, a cacophony of car horns and sirens and lous bass rap that beats relentlessly against my eardrums. My GPS, that digital sadist, keeps chirping, “Take the next exit,” like it’s all part of some cosmic joke.
By the third lap, I’m feeling less like a driver and more like a gerbil in a ketamine-laced exercise wheel. The exits blend into a Kafkaesque blur of arrows and numbers, none of which make any sense. I attempt a lane change, only to be squeezed back into the innermost ring of this mechanical inferno.
Fourth lap, and now the dizziness sets in. The heat is rising—my dog shoots me a withering “you idiot” look from the passenger seat, a canine indictment of my navigational skills. My radio keeps plaing the same Kpop song, over and over.
Fifth lap, and the fuel gauge starts to edge towards E. I picture myself stranded here for eternity, another cautionary tale for future travelers: “The Driver Who Never Escaped.”
Sixth lap, and panic starts to bubble up. My knuckles whiten as I grip the wheel, trying to stave off a full-blown anxiety attack. The honking, the GPS, my own chaotic thoughts—it’s a maelstrom of madness.
Seventh lap, and I catch sight of pedestrians, their bemused faces documenting my Sisyphean struggle. Great, I think, I’m probably trending on social media by now.
Then, as if mocking my predicament, the roundabout transforms. Multiple mini-roundabouts sprout up like malignant tumors within the larger beast, with traffic swirling both clockwise and counterclockwise. Green bike lanes crisscross the center, each one a fresh hazard in this automotive minefield. Left-lane traffic patterns materialize, defying all logic and adding another layer of disorientation.
Pedestrian crossings with refuge islands emerge without warning, demanding my fractured attention. And the pièce de résistance: a spiral and turbo design that forces me into a twisted waltz of lanes, each one more perplexing than the last. It’s like a demented amusement park ride, designed by an unhinged traffic engineer on a bad trip.
Just when I’m about to surrender to the madness, I see it—a glimmer of hope. An exit! Summoning the last of my resolve, I make a desperate dash for freedom. I take the turn and, miraculously, I’m out.
I pull over a few blocks away, heart pounding, sweat drenching my brow. I vow never to underestimate a roundabout again. The absurdity of the experience settles over me like a heavy fog—who knew a simple traffic circle could morph into such a surreal odyssey?
As I continue my journey, the world slowly rights itself. But then, with a sinking feeling, I realize I’ve ended up in Fresno. Perfect.
