Friday afternoon I almost put my fist through the windshield coming back from Chick Fil-A because, I swear, I got held up at every single traffic light, at least a dozen in a row. And my route wasn't some bicyclist's, avoiding major thoroughfares by staying on back streets where you'd expect them to be against you. So this weekend I actually began counting how many times I got the green. (I know what you're thinking, that this is as weak a stunt as I've ever pulled just for the sake of a blog entry, but the way I figured, my pre-Alzheimer's brain ought to be good for a running tab of two numbers between intersections and processing whatever else it needs, driving instructions, any possible change in plans for the remainder of the trip, reminders that I'm neither dreaming nor playing Grand Theft Auto, until I reach my destination—and it'd keep me too preoccupied to get angry.) I stopped last night at 65/100. Should this mildly reassuring figure serve as closure, or should I continue my study by factoring in time of day and area?