There are four [EDIT: I lied. There are three. Counting is not my forté] roundabouts between my condo and my aunt’s house. I love them all, every one. Before I moved here, I hated roundabouts. I only knew of one in Idaho, out in the Nampa regions (AKA the first circle of Hell) and it seemed utterly pointless. Oh, how I loathed it. Roundabouts, as I have since discovered, are poetry, and Nampa is, and always will be, prose of the driest, most Richardsonian kind.

Having only encountered the ridiculous roundabout in that blight of a city known as Nampa, I therefore concluded that I hated all roundabouts. But I don’t. I adore them. I want to confuse the locals by never exiting them. EVER. I want to drive around in them until I pass out from dizziness and go careening into a tree. While driving on roundabouts, my internal soundtrack is stuck in a constant squeal of delight. I cannot imagine having road rage on a roundabout. It’s just not possible.

Roundabouts are magical, like Santa Claus and Tooth Fairies and Elves and other such wondrous things that I never believed could possibly exist, except, roundabouts ARE real. REAL WHOLESOME FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY.

Not even Nampa can diminish my joy.

Whee!