You're playing a dangerous game when you get preachy:
What are your fellow drivers supposed to infer from this high-handed directive? You, as the owner of a roughly 15-year old Subaru Forester, have not settled? You're urging your fellow motorists not to settle? Or some unknown third option? Your intent is, to say the least, unclear.
It's easy, especially on the dystopic roads of Los Angeles, choked as they are with dippy, new-age Californians deeply in touch with their chakras, to serve as a sign. Indeed, we Angelenos traverse our daily lives searching for them; some staunch applicable force of portent in a sea of medical marijuana dispensaries and Carl's Jr. hamburgeries sufficiently universal and bland to apply to our own unique tsuris. Do you, High-Handed License Plate Owner, want to shoulder this fate-altering responsibility? Do you want to own your role as sayer of sooth, determiner of actions, unintentionally calling people to quit their jobs, end their relationships, buy things they can't afford? All because they saw a license plate on a car most likely driven by a heavy-set librarian from Mar Vista? (Look elsewhere for lesbians in Subarus jokes, folks... fish in a barrel.)
I caution, no! No indeed That's a burden you don't want to shoulder, as you have no idea how wide your ripple can be. Leave the advice giving to mothers and therapists, and take your $75 a year charge for a vanity plate and use it to save the whales. Let the sheep wander, let us find our signs elsewhere - and take your self-righteousness and shove it up your tailpipe. Leave the poor inmate that had to hammer that out that custom of metal alone.
Or, at least, put that license plate on a car that doesn't invalidate its potency quite so thoroughly. It really is kind of a crappy car.
Sincerely,
Dear Crabby
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