Our protagonist, whose name escapes me, notices a liberal bumper sticker on the car in front of her. It’s cleverer than most. It criticizes the president’s lack of environmental action through pun. She smiles and wonders if she should go online and order this bumper sticker or one like it. After all, she is dissatisfied with the federal government’s cowardice, the way they cater to auto and oil companies. She remembers, though, that bumper sticker jokes wear out fast. And she has close friends who are conservative. She doesn’t hide her politics from these friends but the bumper sticker, she decides, would come off as pretty smug. Then she thinks, Plus, the trouble with putting a political position on a car is that I’m not always the best driver. What if I cut someone off and then fuel their hatred towards liberals? Then she wonders, Has a bumper sticker ever changed my mind? About anything? It is nighttime and lights are flashing at her, encouraging her to spend money. The world is sending clever sound byte-size messages to her. Too many messages. What this comes down to, what this really comes down to, she decides, is this: Am I a bumper sticker kind of woman? She is not.