Let�s start with this morning -- a few shots, a bottle of wine, and a citation or two earlier. It�s been a long-ass fucking day, you guys. I hope you�ll pardon me if I cuss, or cry, or whatever. Seriously.
I had to get up early this morning, because I had an appointment this afternoon; and I�m still being paid hourly, which is important to remember, I�m sure (dude, I�m drunk -- please bear with me, because I swear that both my drunkenness and my emotions [in this situation] are entirely justified). Here�s the thing about being paid by the hour: it�s absolutely great, unless you live a salaried life. By which I mean, you live the sort of life that necessitates such benefits as Paid Time Off or, you know, healthcare. I live the sort of life that necessitates both these things, and yet�well�I�m still a temp. Life can suck.
Anyway, I got up early, because I had to go in to work early, because I had to cut out early, in order to get to an appointment on time. Now, the appointment was entirely necessary, lest you think I was being frivolous.
Cut to: several hours later, when I hastened back to my car, to discover I had received a parking ticket. I�m not going to act like it wasn�t my fault, either (trust me when I say I have learned a very important lesson about more closely reading signs that say shit like �No Parking Between 12:00pm and 3:00pm Mondays�), but I was extremely agitated. Not to the point that I required multiple shots of tequila, vodka, and rum in order to cope, but I have to beg your trust when I profess that this became necessary in a matter of a few short minutes. As a brief sidebar, I know that drinking is never the �answer� (as such), but please continue reading, and I believe you�ll soon come to the conclusion that sometimes? Drinking is at least �appropriate�.
I thought it was lightning. I swear to you, I had no clue what it was; the pain in my neck and head, and the incredibly loud crack that I heard. I thought it was some kind of electrical current that had struck my car, my beloved Stewart. It wasn�t until I opened my eyes and forced them to focus on what was really and truly in front of them that I found myself reading a license plate number. At eye level.
I guess I was lucky that a soft, cushy, �89 Nissan Sentra was in front of me in the middle of the road, and not Hummer or whatever, because otherwise poor Stewart would have crumpled up like papier mach�. The fact is, a woman driving an SUV (because no one in this fucking town would drive anything else) rammed into the back of me, and pin-balled me through the trunk of a poor woman�s unfortunate auto, who in turn caromed into another car, who rear-ended a BMW. Yes, I was the second car in a five-car pile-up.
I don�t know what else to say about it. I was shaking -- we were all shaking � and I tried to be understanding, but my car is completely fucked-up, y�all! My front license plate was lying in the street! My rear plate is now concave, and probably embedded in my chassis forever. I am probably scarred for life, and doomed to an eternity of dreams in which the front end of my car is swallowed by the trunk of an economy sedan from the Me decade.
My head hit the headrest like a basketball, and everything in my vehicle dislodged and rocketed toward the windshield. The woman two cars up was out for blood, and once she determined how to assign blame� For the first time? It wasn�t my fault. For once, someone else was entirely to blame for the pain and suffering of others. While I felt good about that, I felt awful for her. She was nice, but ultimately at fault. My car looks like a punching bag because she couldn�t take the time to pay attention to the car in front of her.
Anyway, I don�t want to be a big asshole and act like my car is more important than the value of human life, but (while I�m more than happy to be alive) I very nearly lost bladder control this afternoon. My neck hurts, and I spent the entire afternoon waiting to either cry or barf, thanks to her. I feel terrible for her, because she feels guilty like nobody�s business, but sympathy won�t fix my car, y�all.
I hate to be insensitive, but I think having my one-year-old car turned into a metallic accordion entitles me to a little bit of a freak-out.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: crew carrie feet And: get honked I�m Watching: Nothing. I'm going to sleep. I�m Craving: A little bit of normal shit.