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A recorded reading of “Pac-Man Commute”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
My lift tonight drives like a Pac-Man fiend, devouring white lines, his focus so keen. Eyes locked on the road, he swerves and he speeds, snapping up corners like cherries and beads. He chomps through the lanes, a ravenous blur, dodging the ghosts of red lights that stir. I grip the seatbelt like a lifeline, dear God— this isn’t a ride, it’s a pixel-fueled jog. We’re gobbling streets, racing dots in a maze, while my tired eyes blink in a caffeine haze. My workday’s a ghost I’ve left far behind, but here in this car, it’s escape I can’t find. He’s racking up points, but where is the goal? I just want to get home, feed my weary soul. But the car darts and zips—another power-up gained! I’m trapped in this arcade, my sanity drained. Finally, he slows, the screen starts to fade— we pull up to my house, the game overplayed. “Thanks,” I mumble, stumbling out in a daze, leaving Pac-Man behind to eat up more highways.
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