postsecret #2

This is not the kind of road trip that you take with your girlfriends in a glossy convertible with the hood down. This is my solitary, gas-guzzling mental health break in my used truck. It's my pilgrimage to Mecca. My attempt to reach nirvana with greasy hair and cigarette burns in the car seats.
I'm a divorced buisness woman who absolutely hates her job. I go to work everyday manicured and crisp. I argue with people over the phone and flash a fake Crest white-stripped smile at my one o' clock appointment. My lunch consists of a chicken fettuchini LeanCusine. When my office closes at five, I hit the gym for an hour before I return home and mope in front of the television. This is my life, the boring, scripted shithole I experience on a daily basis.
I have swapped my ironed pantsuit for jeans and a t-shirt and am sitting in the front seat of my truck, seatbelt buckled and knuckles white on the wheel, wondering what in the world compelled me to do this in the first place. I twist the key in the ignition and the truck roars to life, causing me to jump. I back the car out of the driveway slowly, the tablets of Zoloft rattling against the walls of it's plastic container in the cupholder. The suitcase on the seat next to me slips off and falls onto the floor.
I turn the car to face into the sun, and with a sudden gust of confidence, I give it some gas. I drive off into the bright light quickly, before I change my mind. I'm on my way to truth and reality.

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The postcard/email for this one is here