Case,
Hate is an extreme emotion that should be reserved for the rarest of situations in which I hope you never find yourself.
With one exception — driving the Interstate 95 corridor between Washington, D.C., and Fredericksburg, Va.
I-95 runs from the Canadian border in Maine south until it ends at what I can only assume are the gates of Hell. And despite what you may have heard, it is not paved with good intentions.
I make the trip to Richmond and back about 10 times a year. I've gotten to the point that I almost always take an alternate route coming and going. But sometimes I'm stuck making the late-night drive south from D.C. after work.
Without fail, I get stuck for 45 minutes to an hour in the never-ending "construction," which consists of dozens of vehicles with flashing lights, hundreds of orange cones/barrels and about seven actual humans working on the same patch of roadway that encompasses all of 3 square feet.
I hate. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
So while I hope for you to enjoy a relatively stress-free existence devoid of hate, if you ever find yourself driving this awful stretch, I give you my permission to join the hate parade, which, now that I think about it, is the perfect name for these God-forsaken traffic jams.
Love,
Dad
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