#aboutlastnight (ONC 2020 Shortlist)

F*cking Limitless

I am a superhero, no doubt. The moment I climb on that motorcycle, I know exactly what to touch, what to press, how to sit to make it go vruuum and shoot into the night. Because of course it's night and I operate on coolness alone.

I guess I should give some props to Damian too, since it's basically his body doing all this, but I'm the one in charge, it's my mind calmly taking all this in as I zoom down the hill and into the city, and it's my brain that seems to have acquired super GPS powers because I know exactly where I'm going.

Even if I know I'm going fast, it's so easy to focus, to predict the actions of incoming traffic. With my awesome suit and dark tinted helmet, I am the height of cool. #motorcyclechick #girlscandoittoo.

I am however saddened realizing I can't possibly take a selfie and post it online using those grandiose hashtags. First off, I'm not sure Damian even has Facebook, let alone Instagram because I didn't get the chance to ransack his phone, and I didn't even think to search for my own purse. It was a lovely, tiny Chanel, too.

Second, even if I could solve this logistics issue, I'm technically not a girl anymore and no one knows I'm still me inside, so I would appear like such a hypocrite to post a gorgeous man body doing all this cool shit.

Yikes! Where did that curse come from? I am a lady and I abhor gratuitous cussing. Especially in the presence of ladies such as myself. And yet...

Some random blue sedan cuts my path and a string of expletives leaves my mouth in an instant. Even the dreaded f-word surfaces and I'm one second away from flipping off the woman who almost made me crash.

She is a wonderful, competent goddess, brave enough to climb inside the metal monster and brave nighttime traffic.

She is also a completely incompetent bitch who wouldn't know the turn signal from the window wipers if they hit her in the head, and who endangers people's lives by driving like a damn boot.

A fabulous, high heel, Jimmy Choo boot.

Ah, my head is spinning and it hurts. It feels like my brain is on overdrive, focusing on a million tiny things at the same time. Other drivers, signals, the next turn I have to take. Clutch, shift, gas. I don't even know what those are, but my foot and hand are pressing down and turning and pulling up, and somehow, this metal monster underneath me responds and turns and goes slower, then faster.

How do people stand their mind going so fast? I swear, I'm getting dizzy. Damian knows so much. His body moves like a well-oiled machine, and how did that technical analogy even come to me?

I'm panicking. I'm freaking panicking! I'm losing myself and I'm swearing inside my head and out loud and it's not even in his voice, but in mine, and I suddenly know all these nasty words and phrases and what torque means. Who needs to know what torque means?

I swear to God, all this information is invading my mind like I'm fucking Bradley Cooper in fucking Limitless. I didn't even see that movie, it was so boring.

I stop at a red light and prop my feet down. I'm actually panting, proving I have some semblance of control over this body and not just the other way around. What's happening to me? Is Damian going to take over me and I'm going to fade into nothingness, my light, my exuberant personality snuffed out forever?

Oh, what a loss. I wish I could let dramatic tears fall down my cheeks and have a good cry, but I'm sure I'm not a pretty crier anymore, and Damian's tear ducts don't seem to work anyway. I hate being a man! Why am I even in this stupid, yet gorgeous body?

A car pulls up next to me, and I look to my left involuntarily. A woman is driving (again) and she's arguing on the phone. Yelling her lungs out into it by the looks of it. I can hear her angry voice even if I can't catch the words. A sexist part of me I never knew existed, so it must've come with the body, is already calculating how likely it is for her to run into me when the light turns green because being on the phone while driving is a terrible idea.