Dad's Parking Karma

Dad's parking karma has been changing. He finds spots a bit slower. Not so immediate, not so dead-on. No quick swoops, no here-we-go openings. We haven't been getting places and finding spots immediately. No, it's been taking some time. Ten to twenty minutes. It's still brilliant though, like whoa! I can't believe he just got this goddamn spot—that kind of brilliance—like fucking unbelievable. Parking karma that lights up your face if you get to be around to see it happen, sweet like this honey-flavored milky english breakfast tea. And you know what? I've inherited it. No kidding, I really have. I believe this very strongly, with much pride. I find really good parking spots. I find spots right in front. When I'm nervous or anxious, trying too hard, when I'm singing "parking karma parking karma" under my breath, though, it doesn't work out. Either all the spots are taken or they slip through my fingers like sand, such as someone swooping into a spot just as I'm awkwardly flipping a bitch to the chorus of horns. When I'm real mellow, real relaxed, it works out so nice. Dad's always relaxed about getting a spot, this is something I'm working on, keeping relaxed, keeping mellow and consistent while on the hunt. Running late fucks up parking karma real bad. Who can remain tranquilo when jamming for time? It's there though, his parking imprint on me. I find spots right in front. Like Boom! Here's a spot right where I need it, when I need it! So I'm making a toast, with this cup of lukewarm english breakfast. Thanks Dad, the Parking Karma Extraordinaire.