I have a problem.
After nine days of staring at license plates, my brain now thinks everything my eyes send it is a license plate.
Last night, I was at a new cocktail bar down the street, and I ordered a Montucky (the “official unofficial beer of Montana”) because I thought it’d be funny to be drinking a five-dollar tallboy while my roommate drank a twelve-dollar cocktail (side note: five dollars is still too much for a Montucky, but the place had a nice bathroom and lots of bricks, so oh well).
When I got it, I looked at it and said to myself, “Wow, bold play going with the unicorn and rainbow on the license plate—wonder when Montana did that.”
This is not a license plate. It is aluminum, but it is not a license plate.
This morning, I looked at a magazine my roommate left on the coffee table, and said, “Oh, Notre Dame going with the pink license plate? One of a kind.”
Notre Dame does not have a license plate. It is not a state.
Hopefully, this will fade as time goes on, as will my newfound tendency to snap my head to the side while driving if I pass a car with a license plate I haven’t seen.
But if it doesn’t, and I am like this for the remainder of my life, please learn from my sufferings and be wary when constructing your own license plate power rankings. That’s all I ask.
