A New Rank
The man behind the counter called my name. I walked up with a copy of the Times Literary Supplement tucked under my arm.
"Congratulations, Mr. Marlow. You've passed."
"Excellent," I replied.
I now have a G1 Ontario driver's license, and officially join the club of new immigrants and 16-year-old suburban teenagers who are allowed to drive with their mom.
For those of you (Yan) who dearly wanted me to fail so they could make fun of me for the rest of my life: "Suck it." Because now I am officially on my way to not having an anxious feeling in my stomach when I apply for jobs that require a license.
I am also on my way to driving with my mom, which is awesome; especially when I take turns to fast and she white-knuckles the door handle.
"Congratulations, Mr. Marlow. You've passed."
"Excellent," I replied.
I now have a G1 Ontario driver's license, and officially join the club of new immigrants and 16-year-old suburban teenagers who are allowed to drive with their mom.
For those of you (Yan) who dearly wanted me to fail so they could make fun of me for the rest of my life: "Suck it." Because now I am officially on my way to not having an anxious feeling in my stomach when I apply for jobs that require a license.
I am also on my way to driving with my mom, which is awesome; especially when I take turns to fast and she white-knuckles the door handle.