Me: I am glad I didn’t give into my “feelings” and cancel. I had so much
fun with Jodi. I’m really glad that I went.
Him: And why were you going to cancel?
Me: The usual reasons. I’m fat and I have nothing to wear.
Him: Well then, lose weight and go shopping. Seriously.
I suppose that a certain someone who dreams of hunting pigs has had it up TO HERE with my whining about my weight.
But you know what? I’m right there with him. More on that once I get this “notice of suspension” from the DMV taken care of.
The Birthday Gift That Keeps on Throbbing (and not in the good way, either.)
I’ve been trying to think of something to write for my obligatory “Birthday Post”. I wanted it to be funny, thought provoking, sad, and uplifting all at once.
I wanted it to be meaningful, something I’d look back on a year from now and feel The Joy deep down in my heart when I read it. I wanted people to link to it and talk about it on their blogs because OH MY GOD, I WISH I HAD WRITTEN THAT POST.
I’ve started and deleted at least 5 posts because I can not seem to get past the fact that last night, I sent my husband to Target to buy me something that I was told will clear up the problem that I have recently developed that is kind of ruining my life at the moment.
Medicated Selsun blue
my sister told me
you will help clear the bacne.
Oh, late 30’s and your fucked up hormones, HOW I HATE YOU.
I guess this is as good as it’s going to get because at the moment, I can’t think of anything positive to say about turning 36 because I have zits on my back.
*twitch*
Yesterday I was feeling highly irritable.
I was lashing out at my husband, short tempered with my children, and raging with anger over the stupidest of things.
I was trying to figure out why on earth I was so wound up. I had no valid reasons to feel the way I was feeling; to act the way that I was acting. I couldn’t blame it on PMS because I just had my period last week.
I sat on the bed and searched for an explanation for my behavior.
Then, it hit me.
I hadn’t taken a vicodin in 8 hours.
Something I’ve not said out loud is this: I haven’t been in pain for over a week. With the exception of an occasional flare up in which my neck feels sore, I haven’t felt any pain in my neck.
I feel normal again.
I haven’t wanted to admit it for fear that as soon as I said it, it would start hurting again and you have no idea how bad it hurt. I didn’t elaborate much about how severe the pain was, except to say things like ‘it’s so bad, it hurts to fart!” The pain was so excruciating that I would contemplate killing myself at night, because I couldn’t even imagine living like that.
Dramatic? Yes. True? Absolutely.
There wasn’t a second of the day or night that I wasn’t in pain.
And so every 4 hours, per doctor’s orders, I’d take one, sometimes two, vicodin. I didn’t want to take those stupid pills because I am a Chicken Shit when it comes to taking medication. I am terrified of what medicine can do to your organs. I can’t tell you how many time my doctor has written me a prescription and I’ve not had it filled because I googled “side effects of *insert drug here*” and decided I’d rather have a rash than black teeth or PENIS PAIN.
I’m thrilled beyond belief that the pain is gone. When my doctor had called with the results of the MRI and said things like “neurosurgery” and “possibly months of pain” I was overwhelmed with fear and trying to come to terms with possibly living the rest of my life in a state of unbearable pain.
Knowing that is not going to be a reality for me brings me joy unspeakable and makes me want to give PigHunter blows jobs FOR NO REASON AT ALL.
However, the BJ’s are going to have to wait until The Withdrawal is over and my mother fucking leg will STOP SHAKING ALREADY.
Ah, the joys of detox.
If only everyone were so “helpful”
Some of you have asked for a “Judy Update.” I’ve had a post sitting in draft for a couple of weeks. I thought I’d post it today, followed by a Very Important Update.
Yesterday morning I was sitting I was sitting on the couch in the living room talking on the phone with Lena.
The blinds were open and I was enjoying the morning sunlight beaming through the window and I was enjoying the warmth on my stumpy, pale legs. Then, all of a sudden, without warning, a dark cloud appeared in the form of a Crazy named Judy walking up the driveway.
I interrupted Lena mid sentence with something like “OH NOES! JUDY IS COMING!”
What Lena didn’t know was that I was saying that, I fell from the couch, did “a roll” (you know, the roll that people do in movies in an attempt to escape from a bad guy? Yeah. That one) and then crawled until I was out of view of the window. I got up, ran down the hall.
“Mooooooom! Judy’s here! Go talk to her! Tell her I’m in the shower!”
My mom looked at me like I was the most pathetic human being to have ever lived on this earth.
“Oh, just talk to her.”
“But MOM! She’s crazy. I don’t want to talk to her. PLEASE?”
“Have Ethan talk to her.”
(Lena was on the phone during all of this and she was laughing and saying things like “Stop! It hurts!”)
Funny thing happened while I was trying to convince my mother to go talk to Judy so I wouldn’t have to.
My daughter opened the front door.
“Hiiiiiiiii!” She said in her high pitched wittle voice.
“Hello! Is Y here?”
“Yeah! Hol’ on! MOMMY! THE LADY’S HERE!”
(Note to self: Time to teach your toddler the “you are not allowed to open the front door for ANYONE. EVER” rule.)
I had no choice at this point; I had to face The Judy.
With the phone on my ear and a prayer for my safety in my heart, I approached the living room to find Judy with one foot in the living room.
“Hello, Yvonne, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you!”
“Um, uh… Yeah, I’ve been um busy. What’s up?”
“I was just wondering if you found a place yet.”
“Um, well, we put in an application. YES!”
(LLLLIIIIIEESSSSS)
“Oh, really? To rent or to buy?”
“To rent!”
“Ok, I’ve been praying for you and thought I’d check to see if you had found a place.”
And off she went.
Wow. That was easy I thought to myself. I felt pretty stupid after she walked away. She said she was praying for me. Maybe she wasn’t a stalker after all, but just a sweet little old lady who wanted to help a stranger out—An Angel Unaware as they say in Jesus Speak!
I really did feel bad… for about two whole days.
You see, A couple of days later, I was in the garage, minding my OWN BUSINESS, doing my laundry.
Out of NOWHERE, Judy is standing next to me.
I felt scared again.
“Um, hi?”
“Hello, Yvonne. What are you doing? The laundry? What kind of laundry detergent is that? May I smell it? Oh! That smells wonderful, where did you buy it? What is that? Fabric softener? May I smell that too? I must get me some of that! So, how’s it going with the house? Did they accept your application?”
I said something TOTALLY STUPID like “we’re still waiting to hear back from them, so we don’t know yet…”
She vowed to continue her fight to help us find a place.
I’m pretty sure that was when I was supposed to “grow a pair” and tell her that we really didn’t need help, but thanks anyway!
But I didn’t. Because she’s a little old lady and I swear to God, a little old lady could pull out a knife and try to stab me in the face and I would let her because she’s old and fragile and RESPECT YER ELDERS OH CHILD OF GOD!
I really do need to do something about this because look what Judy opened up the front door and handed me on Monday.
Inside, there were a couple of newspaper clippings of homes that she thought “we could afford.”
And let’s not even talk about the message she left on my answering machine. (thanks again for giving her my phone number, Mom!) When she asks the question “Why aren’t you calling me back?! I’m just trying to help you!” my vagina gets all weak with fear because she’s one phone call away from saying crazy things like “JUDY DOESN’T LIKE TO BE IGNORED.” I just know it, I can hear it in her tone.
I think that it’s safe to say that I can rule out “Angel Unaware” and go ahead and file that restraining order already.
The Crying Mom
Do you remember what it was like as a kid the night before you were going somewhere exciting, like Disneyland (or a bible convention where all of the Cute Boys Who Loved Jesus AND making out behind the nursery would be?) You would toss and turn and look at the clock every three minutes wondering if it was time to wake up and go already?
That was me last night. Only, I wasn’t going to Disneyland in the morning. Oh no, I was going to drive my first born son to his first day of high school.
I could not stay asleep no matter how hard I tried. My mind was racing with nervous thoughts for him.
Will he find his friends? Will he sit alone at lunch? Will he got lost on the big campus?
I really have held it together quite well considering I am one of Those Moms who cry about every little milestone in their kids lives. (For instance, last night Gabby drew her first recognizable happy face. I could feel myself getting all emotional as she made two round little eyes. When she was finished, I looked at her little happy face and said “where are the ears, sweetie?” And she drew two little round ears in the right spot and I flipping lost it. “Oh my God, she drew ears, Tony. EARS!”. Seriously, I cried over the drawing of ears, people.)
I woke up a little before 5, got dressed and did an hour of work before I woke the kids up.
At 5:45 I heard Andrew walking down the hall.
“Why are you up already?”
“I couldn’t sleep, mom.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No! I’m excited. I can’t wait.”
That was comforting to me and truth be told, I was nervous enough for both of us.
I made breakfast, made lunches, made sure the boys had everything they needed, woke Gabby up, got her dressed and out the door we went.
I have always had a little tradition of taking the boys pictures with their backpacks on the first day of school. Today, I ALMOST forgot.
“Oh my God, I need to get the camera! Wait here while I get the camera!” I shouted.
There was lots of eye rollage and sighs of disgust because “MoooooOOOoM!”
I ran inside and grabbed the camera despite the boys begging and whining that I just “forget about the stupid camera.”
Normally, when I take pictures, I’ll snap a shot, look at it and make sure it came out alright. Today, I didn’t do that. I just snapped the camera and off we went.
As we were getting closer to Andrew’s school, we started to see groups of kids walking towards the building. Andrew started fidgeting in his seat. I could tell he was starting to get nervous.
“You ok?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Well, I’m starting to get a little nervous now.”
And it was in that moment that the gravity of what was happening sucker punched me in the heart and took my breath away.
I had dreamt about this moment from the first time I held that baby boy in my arms. I truly had. And here it was happening sooner than I had ever imagined. My son, the sweet little boy who used to sit on my lap and giggle uncontrollably while I made funny faces. That innocent little toddler, who once held my hand, looked up at me with the biggest smile on his face and said “I love you so much, I want to marry you mommy.” That little guy isn’t so little anymore. He’s now an awkwardly handsome dude with a man voice who rolls his eyes when I ask him to pick up his clothes off of the floor because that’s what High Schooler’s do when their moms get all up in their business and ask them to get off of their ass for TWO SECONDS to pick up their mess.
As I pulled up to the curb to let him off, I could feel the flood of emotions rising within me and I wished so badly that I could shout “FREEZE!” and make time stop if only for a minute. I just wanted to look at that boy and remember how it felt the first time I held him in my arms and compare it to how it felt to be sitting there next to him in all of his teenage glory about to let him go into the big, exciting world of high school.
I put the car in park and I asked him how he was feeling one last time before he got out of the car.
“I’m nervous, but I’ll be fine, Mom.”
“I know you will be. Have fun, baby. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
And with that, he shut the door behind him and began to walk towards the campus and into a new chapter in his life. I watched him walk away in the rear view mirror, just in case he turned around to wave goodbye.
He didn’t.
I continued to watch him as he walked further away from me and closer to his new adventure in life. Suddenly he disappeared into the sea of teenagers.
A sea of emotions washed over my body.
Panic. Excitement. Anxiety. Pride.
Then came the tears. Finally, the tears.
“Only four more years”. I said out loud as I cried.
Four more years and my little dude will be an adult.
That when Ethan decided to chime in.
“Are you CRYING? Oh my GOD, why are you crying, Mom?!”
“Yes, I’m crying. I’m crying so hard because that is my baby boy, Ethan. The little baby boy that made me a mother and I still remember the day he was born and I just can’t believe that in just 4 short years, he’s going to be an adult and EXCUSE ME FOR LIVING, BUT I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO CRY ABOUT THAT.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said “Well, I just think it’s dumb that you’re crying about this.”
Nothing like the brutal honesty of a 10 year old to ruin a moment.
I was able to get a grip and turn off the tears in time to walk Ethan to his first day of 5th grade. I think that he secretly felt bad for me and understood why I was crying because as I was leaving, he said “I love you, Mom” and walked over to give me a kiss.
A kiss! From my 5th grader! In front of his friends!
He’ll never know how much I needed that kiss.
He’ll also never know that as soon as I got home, I ran inside to upload pictures I snapped of them on their way to school and that as soon as I saw them I started to cry again because OH MY GOD LOOK AT MY BOYS THEY AREN’T BABIES ANYMORE AND WAH IT HURTS MY LITTLE HURT SO BAD.
Because I never want to forget that she said this when she was “free” years old.
“I like Oprah, she’s crunchy and yummy.”
Screaming girls ruin everything.
The summer before my first born son started kindergarten was one of the most emotional times in all of my life.
I cried the entire summer. And when I say that I cried the entire summer, I mean that I literally cried the entire summer. Sometimes I’d cry a little, sometimes I’d cry uncontrollably (think Sally Fields in Steel Magnolias.)
But, every single day, I cried.
I’d start off the day fine, and then I’d think about him not being home with me every day, I’d think about holding his little hand and walking him up to the door of his classroom with people he didn’t know. I’d think about how much it would hurt to not hear his little voice talking to me all morning long. I’d think about going to run errands and only having one little boy to buckle into a car seat.
Oh, the pain!
I’d call friends and cry to them. “I just feel like I didn’t do enough with him while he was home with me and now, he’s going to go to school for the rest of his little life and I’ll never get this time back with him and WHY DIDN’T I CHERISH EVERY MINUTE?!”
The day came and it was as bad, if not worse, than I thought it would be.
As we drove to his school, I remember looking at my son sitting in the back seat. His hair was combed perfectly, his backpack sitting in his lap. I could tell by the look on his face that he was nervous, but he was trying extra hard to be a “Big Boy” and not cry.
I wanted to turn the car around and take my little man back home. I couldn’t bear the thought of not having His Sweetness at home with me all day long.
When we pulled up to the school, I forced a big smile to put him at ease.
We walked up the walkway to his classroom hand in hand as we talked about how exciting this was going to be. “You’re going to learn so many things! And make friends! And paint! And have recess!”
It’s been 9 years since that day and I remember the moment in which I had to let go of his little hand to kiss him goodbye as if it happened 5 minutes ago.
Letting go wasn’t easy.
Letting go hurt.
Fast forward to this summer—that same little kindergartner is now about to enter the world of High School.
I’ve been waiting all summer long to experience that same flood of emotions that I felt the year that he started kindergarten.
I’ve waited for the tears to start falling because my little boy is all grown up now and where did that adorable baby who used to sit on my lap and giggle at the faces I’d make go? And why have the years passed so fast? And OH MY GOD, only 4 more years until he graduates and begins a life of his own.
But the tears never came.
Then, this morning, I had to drive him to his freshman orientation.
On the way there, I asked him if he was nervous.
“No.” He answered.
Ah, teenage boys and their one word responses.
“Did you go to the bathroom before we left?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, if you need to go to the bathroom while you’re there, just raise your hand and ask someone…”
The look on his face made me stop mid sentence. He was seriously annoyed with me. Like, “Mom, I’m not a baby anymore, you don’t have to ask me if I went potty before I left the house.”
And THAT is when it hit me. My baby is going to high school. He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s a young man and he’s GOING TO FREAKING HIGH SCHOOL.”
I could feel the lump forming in my throat.
I could feel the tears start to form in my eyes.
I could feel my stomach began to twist in knots.
I fought back the tears, if only to spare my son the humiliation of his mother sobbing as she walked him to the gym.
It was really hard to keep from losing it as we were walking to the gym. As we approached the door, I thought “this is it, this is the moment you used to dream about. The moment where your first born son started high school– except in your dream, you were the Hot Mom with smoking abs and not the Overweight Over emotional freak of a mother…”
And the tears became harder to fight and that lump in my throat started to hurt and I was just about to lose it when….
I noticed a bunch of cheerleader type girls lined up in two rows waiting to greet my son as he walked in the gym. I said goodbye and as he started to walk through the door, the girls started clapping and cheering and screaming. Like “OMIGOD WELCOME TO UR HIGH SCHOOLZ WE R SO HAPPY UR HERE WOOOT GO FRESHMAN!!.”
Now, if you knew my son, you’d know that he gets nervous when any sort of attention is focused on him. So, imagine the look of horror on his face when he realized he had to walk through that screaming, overly excited line of girls while every one was looking on as he made his way through the gym.
Suddenly, the sadness that I had felt in my soul as I watched my son enter a whole new chapter in his life was replaced with uncontrollable laughter—the kind of laughter that hurts, the kind of laughter that makes you cry.
I always imagined that I’d shed tears when my son started high school, I just never thought they would be tears of laughter because some dumbass thought it was a good idea to make nervous, unsure teenagers feel TOTALLY AWKWARD by having a bunch of girls clapping and cheering for them as they made their way into a gym full of people they didn’t know.
Hey, at least I can tell people that “yes, I cried when my son started high school.”
My Mom’s a Wanna Be Professional Photographer– JAZZ HANDS!
Any day now I should be getting a check in the mail for work that I did on a friend’s book. (Did you know that Joelle and Kathy> wrote a book? Yeah. You should order one.)
The check will be enough to cover most of the cost of a new camera.
A new camera!
I’ve been dreaming of a new camera for years and now, that I’ve earned my own Chunk O’Cash, I have decided that I’m going to go ahead and finally get me one.
I enjoy taking pictures of my children immensely. Some might agree the use of the word “children” is a stretch, as pretty much every picture that I take if of my daughter, HOWEVER, that is because my boys ALL CAPS HATE for me to take their pictures. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have boxes and boxes upon boxes filled with pictures of my boys when they were younger, because I do. (Notice I didn’t say “photo albums? Because oh my God, I have 14 years of pictures in boxes! And don’t tell me that I would love scrapbooking and that I should go to a creative memories party! Because, been there, done that, have the $200 kit to prove it. And my pictures are STILL in boxes.) In fact, I’m pretty sure that I have more pictures of Andrew as a baby than I do of Gabby, if you can imagine that.
While I’m 100% certain that this little dream of mine to own a good camera is going to come true, I’m still a little torn as to which camera I am going to buy.
Nikon or Canon?
I’ve heard good things about both, but I’ve also heard a lot of negative things about Nikon. And, to be honest, I’ve not heard ONE bad thing about Canon.
However, I know people who shoot with Nikon. These people take amazing photos and they also love their Nikon’s almost as much as they love their children, I think.
I know people are pretty passionate when it comes to the old “Nikon, Canon” debate, but really, all I care about is that the camera is somewhat easy to operate, that it is reliable and that it takes pretty pictures.
I’m easy like that.
I am very excited to learn more about photography and to see what I can do with a good camera. Photography has been of interest to me since the time I took photography class in junior high and learned to develop my own film. (Oh my God, one time? I got to work in The Dark Room with this really cute boy and we were alone and oh my GOD, we totally could have made out and no one would have known, well, except for Jesus and really, knowing Jesus was watching me ruined a lot of great opportunities for me to get to some bases with some boys. *waves to Jesus*) My reasons for never pursuing photography range from “too lazy” to “OMG! That camera costs HOW MUCH?!”
However, I’m not getting any younger and I realize that “holy SHIT! My life is half over and I better start doing things that I want to do before my heart goes out on me!”
I’m going to ask for a little help from you guys. If you do own a DSLR, I’d love for you to tell me how you feel about it. What you LOVE about it, what you absolutely hate about it. I don’t really want it to turn into a Nikon/Canon debate, but I would appreciate some honest feedback to help me make my choice.
Just so you know, I’m leaning towards a Canon Rebel, so if you have one, I am REALLY interested in what you have to say.
Don’t Blaugh.
I can not think of anything more annoying than when you’re taking a shower and the timer for the sprinklers go off just as you lather up and the water pressure goes from hot and hard to freezing cold and limp.
Oh! Wait! Yes I can!
When people try to come up with cute little sayings with the word (or part of the word) “blog” in it!
“I’m blogstipated!”
“Blogo’riffic!”
“Blogtastic!”
Am I the only one who finds this blonnoying? I swear, I’m not trying to be blogstrovsial, or a blitch, those cute little word manipulations do not normally bother me, but lately, I’ve been seeing them every where and I swear, if I read one more post containing a blog-word, I may consider bloverdosing to commit blogiside.
It felt good to let that out, I just hope I didn’t bloffend anyone.
Bloving on…
I haven’t thought about The Dent much, but I’m pretty sure that’s because PigHunter took the van for the weekend to go camping. For “The Record” I was dead set against it, because he used to take the Ass-tro van and that thing would come back smelling like a burnt wood and fish juice.
And I don’t like my car to smell like fiery fish juice.
I just got the cigarette smell out of the car and I just know I’m going to spend the next few weeks trying to get the smell of “camping” out (also compulsively and obsessively looking at The Dent.) and do you know why I don’t to go camping?
I’ll tell you why—because I hate the smell of burnt wood.
I know there are people who love the smell of a fire burning. My Grandparents were some of Those People.
They used to have a little house in the mountains and I’d stay there almost every weekend, because I loved staying with my grandparents. However, I hated staying there in the winter, because they constantly had a fire burning in the fireplace. The smell from a wood burning fire makes me sick. It makes me so sick that I get angry inside. No, seriously, I feel rage as I’m thinking about it because I’d be trapped in that house with that smell.
And that smell would penetrate my skin and my clothing and my hair and it didn’t matter how many showers I took, I’d still walk out of that house smelling like a fireplace. (And when I was 16, it was VERY IMPORTANT to me that my hair smelled like Heavenly Flowers and NOT like Burnt Ashes.)
I suppose I’m in the minority with my hatred of Fires. Most people I know love to get a fire going and enjoy the warmth from the fire while sipping on a cup of hot cocoa. Me? I’d rather bundle up under some blankets, crank up the heater and read a good book while still managing to smell like Heaven.
Or should I say Bleaven
Har.
No Good Deed Goes Undented.
Every time something bad happens to me or my family, which is pretty much every other day around here, someone will say something like “It’s about time your luck starts turning around!” Or “Something good is bound to happen soon! Hang in there!”
I know people mean well when they say that, they are generally hoping for good things to come my way. And, I want to believe it! I need some goodness to rain down from heaven and into my life– But, I don’t believe it. Good things are NOT headed my way and I’m just tired of trying to pretend like they are.
(Oprah’s all “You get back what you put in! Be positive! The Secret!” Rainbows! Ponies! Love! Schools in Africa!”)
You know, I’ve tried to remain positive in the face of all the negativity in my life. I’ve tried to keep a sense of humor about it all. “Bulging disks! HILARIOUS!” “Uninsured motorist? HAHAHA!”
But yesterday was the last straw. Yesterday was the day that I cried uncontrollably while shaking my fists at God.
(My Dad’s all “This is not God’s fault. This is your fault for turning your back on God. If you would repent and re-commit your life, things would start looking up for you! Why do you keep running from God?)
Truthfully, I’m not angry at God. I don’t blame God for my problems, but there’s something very liberating about lifting your fists towards the heaven and screaming “Whyyyyyyyy?”
Yesterday, I was out doing some grocery shopping for The Annual PigHunter/Sons camping trip. As I was out and about, I decided to stop at the gas station and fill the tank up with gas so Tony wouldn’t have to do it early in the morning. (Filling up the gas tank is almost as thoughtful as giving an unexpected blowjob around here!) I pulled into the gas station and opened the car door carefully, as there was a stone pillar type thing a few inches away.
I got out of the car, and reached in to get my purse. As I was taking my wallet out, I heard the voice of a man directly behind me.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
I jumped and turned to see who was behind me and why there were all up in my personal space and when I did, I hit the car door with my enormous ass and BAM! It hit the stone pillar.
I was afraid to look. We just bought this car. We just fucking bought this car.
“What do you want?” I snapped at the man.
“well, me and my girlfriend and my little girl just ran out of gas and I swear, we’re not homeless or anything, we just ran out of gas and I have no money and is there any way you can help us?”
I looked over and saw his girlfriend and daughter sitting in the car and while my first reaction was to say “SCREW YOU” because seriously, dude, you just made me dent my brand new used van door and I hate you so much. But then, I thought about all of the things that have happened to me in the past few months and what if I had run out of gas and didn’t have any money to put more in? How could I NOT help?
I told him I didn’t have any cash, but I’d go inside and get him $10 with my debit card.
Before I walked away to go inside, I looked at the damage to my door.
It was bad. A huge dent AND a gnarly scratch.
I held it together while I went into pay for a strangers gas, but I did tell the cashier what had just happened.
“Why did you help?” she asked. “You shouldn’t have done that. There are scammers out there.”
“I know.” I said, as I tried to hold the tears back. The tears for MY VAN DOOR. “I know, but what if it wasn’t a scam? I would hate for that to ever happen to me, so I wanted to help.”
“Well, bless you.” She said. “It’s going to come back to you 10 fold.”
(My Inner Bitch is all “HA! Sure it is! Remember that really nice thing you did for your friend last month, because you love her so much and now she’s not speaking to you?! 10 FOLD MY ASS, lady!”)
As soon as I got back to my car, I lost it. I saw the dent and I just lost it.
I know! It’s just a DENT.
“At least you’re alive! I mean, at least that man wasn’t a psycho killer who came up and stabbed you in the liver! YOU STILL HAVE YOUR LIVER! It’s a dent, dude!”
But that dent represents all of the bad luck that I’ve had these past few months. I look at that dent (because you know I can’t stop looking at the dent, right?) and I get so angry. I was trying to help a stranger out and really, I didn’t want anything in return, except for maybe THE DOOR OF MY USED NEW CAR TO NOT GET JACKED UP.
Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, the answer is yes, it is too much to ask because well, there’s a dent in my car door.
Tony was mad when he first saw it “Oh well, it’s your car and if you want to drive around in a car with dents on it, then that’s your problem.”
Because, you know, I did it on purpose.
He quickly realized he was being a bit of a jerk and so he hugged me and told me it was an accident and that we’d have it fixed. Which, no we won’t. I can’t justify fixing a dent in my car when he’s driving around without air conditioning in his car.
I don’t know, it sounds pretty stupid now that I’m typing it out. (Wahhh, I did something nice for someone and I got a dent in my car in return.) But when I first started writing this, it just felt VERY Serious.
It really did.