Highway to Hell: I-95, Rage, and the American Dream

Veins of American Dream

Who needs Europe’s charming pedestrian zones when you’ve got 7-Elevens flanked by chain-link fences and parking lots the size of Delaware? Lace up those sneakers, pal. You’re going on an epic 3-hour journey, daily. American Dream is alive and well—stuck in traffic somewhere between Exit 12 and existential despair. Every morning, millions of us wake up, chug caffeine brewed in machines that hate us, and voluntarily launch ourselves into an asphalt inferno called I-95. It’s not just a highway. It’s a national experiment in patience, pain tolerance, and personal audio branding.

I-95 isn’t a road—it’s a lifestyle. A personality. A rite of passage. A slow-moving metaphor for everything we were promised and never got. It’s where dreams go to idle in neutral while someone in a lifted pickup tailgates you at 10 mph.

And yet... we return. Day after day. Honking, swearing, podcasting, eating meals that come in foil packets. This isn’t commuting—it’s a lifestyle. Podcasts, Audiobooks, and My Own Screaming I used to listen to true crime. Now I just narrate my own descent into madness. There’s something poetic about yelling “MERGE!” to someone who clearly cannot hear you.

Why I’ll Never Stop Some say I should move closer to work. Others suggest I work remotely. But then I wouldn’t have the pure, unfiltered joy of inching along the freeway. I live for that thrill. So the next time you're crawling down I-95, stuck behind someone doing 14 in the fast lane while a guy in a Dodge Charger cuts across four lanes like it’s Fast & Furious, just remember: this is the American Dream. Delayed, dented, and drowning in brake lights. We wanted freedom and ended up with toll booths. We asked for opportunity and got construction cones. But hey—at least we’ve got Bluetooth, podcasts about productivity, and a cup holder that fits a 64-ounce Mountain Dew. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of a parking spot.