Pickup Truck

We drive off in a rusted red pick up truck. Most of the paint is chipped away and the muffler sounds God awful. You could hear it from a block away. Olivia sits in the front seat while I ride in the back. That's the kind of guy I am. Letting my girlfriend sit next to someone who might be a homicidal maniac. Damn it! I'm sure she's fine though. She's tough. She can handle herself. Plus I can check in on her through the little window in the back. I try and relax a little bit and enjoy the ride. I find I have to hang on for dear life between the bumpy, gravely road, and all her sharp turns. Other than the massive amount of bruises I might have later, the only thing I can think about is how she could be right. Yes, she got into my head. It doesn't mean that there isn't at least the slightest chance that she could be right though. I mean I'm seeking information on a creepy old man for what? Will it really change anything? What if intuition doesn't really exist? What if it was just the product of someone's imagination at one point? We like to follow these hunches and say to ourselves "this feels right." or "This feels off." So we follow these hunches, or gut feelings , or whatever you want to call them and sometimes we are rewarded favorably. Sometimes it doesn't go well for us. In those instances we say to ourselves " that's because I was supposed to learn so and so." It seems impossible to prove or disprove that statement.  But what if that is just something we tell ourselves to feel better. As grim as it may be, intuition could  be nothing more than a choice, any choice that we make and then stick to... Damn I have stop thinking for a while. I need something to distract me. Fortunately this very sharp turn is making me feel my eggs from this morning. Thankfully, nothing comes up, but I don't feel so hot. The truck stops out side of the town bank. Our first errand.