Dear GPS,

I would like to extend an apology to you. Though I may shout and scream at the top of my lungs at you when I am driving through the city, I want you to know, that I still have deep feelings for you and all that you represent.

Sometimes, it is not possible to make a legal U turn, but you always seem to know best. Even when I curse you and spit on your screen, you are always more than cordial to me in response. No matter what kind of jam I might get myself into, I know that you will always be there to help me find my way out through a lengthy and sometimes shady detour through the industrial park, or a scenic rerouting through a country road paved only with clay and horse manure.

Even when I disagree with your staunch commands to exit at the nearest junction, I know that you only have my best interests at heart. The power of you satellite has is infinitely stronger than my self-confidence that I know exactly where I am and where I am going, even when the scenery looks absolutely nothing like East Jersey.

So, please forgive my ranting and raving as you again tell me to exit at the nearest off ramp. Forgive the way I smash your touch-pad with my stubby fingers to try and find a bypass. Forgive the obscenities that I shout at you while in the throes of venomous passion while being tailed by an angry semi-truck. But mostly, forgive my lack of faith. For, without you, a trip to my parent’s house would surely land me in a bungalow in Africa or in the middle of the South China Sea.

No matter what I say to you, no matter what comments I use to demean your existence, no matter what slur I bellow with spit-filled vigor at your current command that would lead me into the side of a building, know that I love and need you know, and always will.