Everyday is the same.  Everyday, it waits for me.  Everyday, I embrace my space.

Everyday at work, I park in the same space.  Three from the end of the far row.  Always next to the red pickup truck.  It’s like clockwork.  It’s the way it should be.  The way it should be, everyday.

Everyday, except yesterday.  Much to my shock.  Much to my sadness.  Much to my disorientation.  I pulled into the parking lot at work and someone was in my spot.  Oh, the horror!

Not that my spot is marked.  Not that anyone should necessarily know.  But still, back off!  It’s my place!  Can’t you sense my inner being yearning for placement in my designated space?  Can’t you park out in the hinterlands?  A land where you certainly won’t be taking someone’s precious source of parking stability.  Have a heart, watch out where you park.

Don’t make me mark my space in chalk.  “Don’t make me do it,” says the sensitive man with chalk in hand.