is it weird to write in third person?

Past millions of identical suburbs she drove lazily, using one hand and with the other she flapped her skirt to cool her thighs. The radio played lunch hour sets and heat or boredom caused her to ponder. She decided that plenty of folksingers start out singing about souls and goodness and trouble, and end up singing the kind of lyrics that don't really mean anything at all. What a sad fate.

At a red light, she watched a little dusty boy sitting a few feet off the road as he watched a long-dead rabbit getting run over again and again. She hoped the child would get on his bike soon and ride back to friendlier things. It was june, after all, and somewhere there was a sprinkler waiting to be danced over. No summertime skamp should waste time watching the very rapid decomposition of road kill. The light turned green, and as she accelerated she avoided the rabbit, out of a respect for life that once was and out of concern for the well-being of morbid children.