18 Thoughts Every Georgian Has While Waiting at the DMV (But Doesn’t Say Out Loud)

The DMV is one of the last places most Georgia residents want to spend their time. The chairs are uncomfortable, the clock never moves, and everyone pretends not to judge each other while thinking, “Why is this taking forever?”

If scientists wanted to study what happens when you trap people in a quiet room with no snacks or Wi-Fi, they’d call it the DMV.

And while nobody says it out loud, we’re all thinking the same ridiculous stuff.

“Did I Grab the Right Paperwork?”

It always starts with a little voice in your head whispering, “You definitely forgot something.” Even if you double-checked the night before and laid everything out like you were packing for a flight, there’s still that anxious pit in your stomach.

Was it Form AB-732 or the weird yellow one? And wait—was a proof of residency required, or was that only if you moved recently?

The rules seem to change depending on who you ask, and there’s nothing worse than reaching the counter only to be told you need to go home and come back another day.

That fear of forgetting something sends people waiting at the DMV into full panic-mode. They dig through their bag, checking for that utility bill they printed just in case. They start whispering their checklist in their head: license, registration, insurance, social security card.

Please let it be enough.

The DMV website said to bring “proper documentation,” but what does that actually mean?

It could mean anything from a birth certificate to a water bill from 1997. You look around at other people clutching manila folders and thick envelopes and wonder if you missed a memo.

“Why Is That Number Taking Forever?”

You get your number—B87—and hope the wait won’t be bad. Then you glance at the screen and see they’re only on B64.

Time slows to a crawl. It feels like it takes fifteen minutes for each number to be called. You do some math in your head: 23 people ahead of me… at 10 minutes each… carry the one… yep, I’m going to be here until the next presidential election.

At first, you try to be patient. You scroll through your phone, glance up every few seconds, hoping the screen jumped forward a few places. But it never does.

You start to notice which employees are calling numbers and which ones seem to be trapped in eternal conversation with the same person. Why are they taking forever?

And then there’s that moment when they skip from B70 to C12, and you start questioning the whole system. Is there a secret line? A black market for better numbers?

You consider asking someone, but decide not to be that person.

“Is This Chair Designed to Make Me Miserable?”

After about ten minutes in that plastic DMV chair, your body starts to question your life choices.

The cushion—if you can even call it that—has the support of a soggy graham cracker. There’s no armrest, little legroom, and the person next to you keeps shifting every five seconds, making the whole row wobble.

You try switching positions—sit up straight, cross your legs, lean forward, lean back—but nothing helps.

Somehow, this chair manages to make both your back and your tailbone hurt at the same time. You look around and recognize everyone else is in the same boat.

Even worse, there’s never enough chairs for everyone. You spot someone standing by the wall and feel a weird mix of sympathy and triumph. You got a chair, but at what cost?

You think about how gyms should start offering “DMV Sit Endurance” as a core workout.

“Why Did That Person Get Called Before Me?”

There’s always that one person who walks in after you, barely has time to sit down, and then—bam!—they get called up.

You glance at your number again, then back at the screen, just to make sure you didn’t miss yours. Nope. Still stuck on the same spot.

Meanwhile, that other person is already walking to the counter with a grin like they know the secrets of the universe.

You try to tell yourself they must be in a different category. Maybe they’re here for something simple, like a replacement ID. Maybe they made an appointment.

But still, it doesn’t stop you from glaring just a little, wondering what kind of sorcery they used to skip the line.

You imagine walking up and whispering, “How did you do that?” but instead, you just stew silently. You can’t prove favoritism, but it sure feels personal when someone leaps ahead like that.

“Did That Baby Just Lick the Floor?”

Public waiting areas are germ playgrounds, and the DMV is no exception.

The moment a kid starts crawling around the dirty floor, your internal alarm goes off. You watch in horror as a toddler sticks their hand in their mouth after touching the bench, and you think, “Well, that child now has every disease known to man.”

It’s not just the kids, though. Someone sneezes without covering their mouth, and suddenly, you’re trying to hold your breath. You spot a mysterious sticky spot on the chair next to you and make a mental note to throw your clothes in the laundry when you get home.

You reach into your bag for hand sanitizer, douse your hands, and then try to keep your elbows tucked in so you don’t touch anything.

The DMV may be where paperwork gets done, but it’s also where your immune system gets tested.

“I Could’ve Baked a Cake by Now”

As you glance at the clock for the twentieth time, your brain starts coming up with all the things you could have accomplished instead.

“I could’ve done two loads of laundry… meal prepped for the week… learned French.” Anything would feel more productive than this slow-motion nightmare.

You imagine going home and finding a “Congratulations! You survived the DMV” medal in your mailbox. Or at least a coupon for free pizza.

There should be some reward system, right? Like frequent flyer miles, but for surviving bureaucratic purgatory.

You start creating new DMV-related time units. One DMV Hour equals approximately three Real-Life Hours. It becomes a game to mentally list everything you could’ve done—written a novel, finished college, trained for a marathon.

All of it seems more likely than getting called next.

“What Happens If I Just Leave?”

Around hour two, your brain starts getting rebellious. You start thinking, “What if I just walk out and live a new life without a license?”

You fantasize about escaping out the back door and pretending the whole thing never happened. Sure, you’d have to take the bus everywhere and never rent a car again.

But at least you’d be free.

You wonder if anyone’s ever just gotten up and left mid-wait. Then you remember how hard it was just to get the day off work and how your license expires tomorrow.

Reality pulls you back in. You sigh deeply and stay put, but the desire to leave still lingers.

“That Employee Looks Like They’re Over It Too”

As you watch the workers behind the counter, it becomes pretty obvious that some of them are just as done with the DMV as you are.

One is typing with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on vacation. Another is staring blankly into space, possibly questioning every decision that brought them to this point.

Then there’s the one who’s actually moving fast and being friendly, and they instantly become your new favorite person.

You root for them silently and hope, with all your might, that they’re the one who calls your number when the time finally comes.

But overall, the vibe is clear: everyone’s tired. It’s not just the customers. The workers have probably dealt with a hundred annoyed people already today.

You remind yourself not to be rude when your turn finally comes. After all, few people dream of working at the DMV—it’s a tough gig.

“Do These People Not Know Volume Control?”

Some folks treat the waiting room like it’s their living room. They’re talking on speakerphone, playing loud videos with no headphones, or chatting so loudly you can hear every detail of their lunch plans.

You want to turn and give them “the look,” but you know it probably won’t help.

One person keeps hitting repeat on the same TikTok song, and now it’s stuck in your head. Another is scrolling through their gallery with their ringer on, so every click sounds like a camera shutter in a cave.

You start thinking about starting a movement: “Headphones for Humanity.”

Then there are the personal conversations that probably shouldn’t be public. You learn more about a stranger’s drama than you ever wanted to.

You just wanted to renew your license, not overhear the details of someone’s breakup.

“Why Are There So Many Steps to Everything?”

Once you finally get called, you expect to be in and out. But no—now comes the second phase of the DMV experience.

You need to fill out a form, take it to Window 12, get a stamp, go to Window 3, get another form, then wait again. It’s like a scavenger hunt but without the fun or the prize.

You start to wonder if this is a test. Like if you survive all these mini-tasks without losing your temper, you pass and get your license. If you mess up and forget to check a box, it’s back to square one.

Even paying doesn’t feel simple. They want a check, or a money order, or your firstborn child—but definitely not a credit card.

You swear you saw a woman whisper, “DMV Level: Expert” as she zipped through the steps with a folder of perfectly organized paperwork.

“Why Didn’t I Just Make an Appointment?”

Somewhere between realizing your number is still 27 spots away and your legs going numb from the chair, it hits you—you could’ve made an appointment.

You think back to that moment on the DMV website where it asked, “Do you want to schedule a visit?” and you said, “Nah, I’ll wing it.”

Big mistake.

Now you’re watching people with appointment slips breeze past like VIP guests at a concert. They flash their confirmation emails and head straight to a special line that seems to move at light speed.

You think, “Next time, I’m doing that,” even though deep down, you know you’ll probably forget again.

You start to daydream about an all-appointment DMV with no wait times, peaceful music playing, and employees who smile because they’re not swamped.

“Should I Pretend I Didn’t Hear That?”

The DMV brings together people from every walk of life, and some of them have no problem talking loudly about things that make everyone else uncomfortable.

Someone just said they haven’t had insurance in two years, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close their car might’ve parked to yours.

Then there’s the person oversharing about their latest traffic ticket—right down to the detail of how they “kind of nudged a fire hydrant” but “it wasn’t really a big deal.”

You sit there quietly, thinking, “Should I pretend I’m wearing headphones, even though I’m clearly not?”

Sometimes it’s just awkwardly loud bathroom talk, or someone complaining about the government in a very theatrical way. Whatever the topic, you pretend like you didn’t hear it, even though everyone clearly did.

“If I Get Called Next, I’ll Forgive Everything”

You’ve been stewing in your own frustration for so long, you feel like a slow-cooked roast. But then they call out a number… and it’s dangerously close to yours.

Your ears perk up. Your posture improves. Hope returns to your soul. This could be it.

And in that brief moment of optimism, everything feels worth it. You think, “Okay, this wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’ve been too harsh.”

You start mentally preparing your documents again. You’re ready.

But then they call a number that skips yours completely. You slump back down in your seat, betrayed by the system once more.

“This Is Probably What Purgatory Feels Like”

After you’ve been sitting there for what feels like a lifetime, your brain starts drifting into dramatic territory.

Maybe this is it. Maybe you’ve entered purgatory, and the only way out is to renew your registration correctly on the first try. You imagine Dante’s “Inferno,” DMV edition, where the ninth circle of hell is actually just the photo line.

You look around and see the same tired, glassy-eyed expressions on everyone else’s faces. A shared silence fills the room, the kind of quiet that comes from people who have given up all sense of time and purpose.

You start to wonder if the clock is even real or just a DMV prop.

In this version of reality, joy is a distant memory and patience is a muscle you’ve been working out all day.

“Do I Look Okay in This Picture?”

If you’re there to get your license renewed, there’s one special moment that brings a new wave of panic: the dreaded photo.

No matter how much you prepared—did your hair, wore your nicest “I’m responsible” shirt—it doesn’t matter. The DMV camera will find the one angle that makes you look like you just woke up from a nap under a bridge.

You sit on the little stool, blinking under those harsh fluorescent lights, and you’re told, “Look straight ahead.”

Then click.

No warning, no countdown, no second shot. It’s done. You ask if you can retake it, and they say no with the firmness of a judge delivering a life sentence.

Later, when your ID arrives in the mail, you stare at the picture with horror and think, “That’s what I look like?”

“What Do I Even Do When They Call My Number?”

After hours of waiting, your moment finally comes—but suddenly you forget how to human. You hear your number and spring up like you just won the lottery, but then you realize you’re not even sure where to go.

Window 4? Or was it 6?

You do that half-walk, half-jog over to the counter, holding your papers like a squirrel clutching stolen snacks.

When you get there, your brain short-circuits and you forget the purpose of your entire visit. The worker asks what you need, and you blurt out something like, “Car license registration thingy.”

They nod, used to this kind of flustered energy. You hand over way too many documents, like a kid offering random objects to the Tooth Fairy.

You finally get your bearings, but you’re sweating like you just ran a marathon.

“Should I Offer This Person a Mint or Mind My Business?”

At some point, you will sit near someone who is either chewing gum like it’s a workout or breathing a little too freely in your direction.

It’s not their fault, exactly—but your nose is on high alert. You keep thinking, “Should I offer them a mint?” Then immediately follow it up with, “Wait, am I being rude?”

The balance between politeness and self-preservation is tricky at the DMV.

People are already on edge, so the smallest comment might set off a chain reaction. You could offer a gum, and next thing you know, someone’s yelling about personal space or freedom of speech.

Instead, you do what everyone else does—lean a little to the side, pretend to scroll through your phone, and breathe through your mouth if things get intense.

“I Deserve a Nap, a Pizza, and a Trophy After This”

By the time you finally finish your DMV visit, you’re not just relieved—you’re victorious.

You conquered the forms, survived the wait, endured the chairs, and didn’t lose your cool (out loud, anyway). You strut out of there like a gladiator leaving the arena.

You immediately start planning your post-DMV reward. Maybe it’s a giant iced coffee, a fast food feast, or just collapsing on your couch with your favorite show.

Whatever it is, you’ve earned it. And yes, you’ll tell everyone about your experience like it was a war story.

You might even vow never to return… but you know you will. Maybe not today. Maybe not next year.

But someday, you’ll be back in that same plastic chair, having the same thoughts all over again.

17 Life Hacks That Are Harder Than the Non-Hack

Life hacks are supposed to make your life easier, and sometimes they really do. However, the internet is rife with hacks that aren’t actually effective.

17 Life Hacks That Are Harder Than the Non-Hack

24 “Compliments” That Are Actually Condescending

Some Americans have mastered the art of a double-edged nice comment. Others, more well-intentioned, don’t mean to say something judgmental but end up there just the same.

“Bless Her Heart.” 24 Compliments That Are Actually Condescending