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We all have our own personal versions of hell, a fiery underworld ruled by demons where we all get whipped and beaten... or perhaps you take the "levels of hell" idea to heart varying through "party-hell" to "burned alive" hell. Perhaps your version of hell is existing in Miami for all eternity... it doesn't matter, it differs for all of us.

But there is one universal hell in this world, and we don't even have to die to go there. I'm talking about the waiting room of any Oil-Change Service Station. Be it your Jiffy-Lube, Quickie-Lube, or home-town hole-in-the-plywood-wall... the waiting room of it is a station of hell on earth.

I write this article as I sit in the waiting room of the Jiffy-Lube in central Maine, waiting for the oil to be changed out of my sister's car. Let me walk you through the hellish barrage of my senses, although I?m sure that you've all been there and it's the exact same no matter where you go.

SIGHT: Gray brick walls, a drop ceiling that has more water-spots than untouched areas, the floor with the gorgeous red and gold carpet that is matted down and stained with the oily footprints of mechanics. My personal space is invaded by a mother with her baby who is screaming her head off (the mother, not the baby, apparently she's been waiting a whole ten minutes!) There is a couch along one wall that either has serious DNA deposits or someone has spilled a milkshake on it, a vending machine that hasn't been refilled ever and (honest to god guys...) has one bag of Doritos, two snicker bars and a pack of gum all of which are caked with dust. There is a humongous spider in the corner that I am keeping a wary eye on, and two US Weekly magazines from when Jen was still with Brad. The mother is breast feeding now. Not awkward even a little bit.

SMELL: If there was only a way that I could show you the odor in this place... I wouldn't. It is so rank that I would rather stick my head into the laundry bag of a heavy metal band that has been on tour for the past five months. I wish to spare you and all that you love from the noxious fumes that I am positive will never come out of my favourite AFI shirt now. I can tell you that it is a mix of motor oil, stale chewing tobacco that has been sitting in a spittoon for a month, serious body odor, mildew and vomit with a slight note of pine wafting from the tiny paper trees hanging on the wall every five feet in a desperate and yet worthless attempt to cover the stink. If this were a cartoon you would see wavy green lines everywhere. I am not happy.

SOUND: No joke you guys? Chumbawumba is playing as I type this. I couldn't even make that up, Chumba. Freakin. Wumba. is playing over the radio station. What the hell station is this? What radio station around here came in this morning and was like "Dudes? I get knocked down.. But I get up again. This song speaks to the generations." Other than the horrifying music playing overhead there is the obvious clank and clatter of mechanics-- oh oh sorry... "Car Technicians" working in the shop, a Zenith TV in the corner playing Wheel of Fortune and the incessant and migraine-inducing buzzing of a dozen overhead lights. An update: Chumbawumba is over and Jiffy-Lube just Rick Rolled us all.

TOUCH: Somehow my shoes stick to the carpet when I step. It's like Velcro if Velcro was made out of my converse shoes and a carpet full of spilled pop, baby slobber, motor oil and what I can only imagine to be the physical manifestation of the stink in here. The vinyl chairs are cracked and sticky, and I start to question my faith in the human race as I SWEAR I feel something crawling on the back of my neck.

TASTE: You know how sometimes you swear you can smell something so much that you can taste it? Yeah. Me too.

I can see my sisters car in the garage. Please, please god let this be over soon... the baby is staring at me, and its mother is insisting that it tell me its name...