The car’s clock ticks life away as you sit on probably the hottest day of the school year and endure the line to the four-way stop. Five minutes—that feel like thirty—creep at a petty, skin-crawling, painstaking pace before, finally, your tires roll over the gleaming white stop line. Slowing down before taking your turn, Patriot Way lays before you in all its awe-inspiring glory: an escape route away from Liberty’s campus. But as the heavenly lights lure you out into the intersection, tires screech, and a clunky, duck-taped, dust-rotten box of a car cuts you off, eclipsing the light with its monstrous and despicable form. The demon tail lights cast their shadow, belittling you into a poor player controlled by this idiotic game of an intersection. By cutting you off, the noisy car held up traffic, forcing you to sit helplessly and mindlessly watch your precious, invaluable time go right out the window. Dreading the face of your boss after arriving late, your head plummets into a head bang because, no matter how much you try, there will always be those people who cut you off.