My Guilty Pleasure

It lurks in the dark hallways of the local mall, on the sidewalk at the corner store, in the food court next to Taco Land, and near the bathrooms at the movie theater.  Like one of Pavlov's dogs, I see the blinking lights and hear the sound of the bell and I instinctively start searching, hoping to find a quarter. Just. One. Quarter.

The coin drops and it's activated. For one glorious moment I am transported. I am no longer a fingerless, one eyed, pink, ugly monster, created to serve at Kim's beck and call.  I am a race car driver, a cowboy, a school bus driver, the whole world is my carnival!! I throw my head back and howl at the moon (or at the florescent, flickering Pretzel Hut sign).

How is it that a simple driving mechanism hidden under a vacuum formed plastic cover can do this to me?

My guilty pleasure.