My car has been not been doing very well as it goes about its daily vroom-vroom business lately: it gets all flaky when I accelerate, and has anxiety attacks at stoplights, and it’s almost petulant about backing into parking spaces. So I took it in today. Oh no. There’s something about a gasket and the oil, and the fuel system, and possibly also it’s infested with weevils, I don’t know, but it is freaking expensive, and I won’t be able to pick it up until Monday, which means that I will have to turn thirty-three tomorrow unable to fully enjoy the modern convenience of motor transport. Though really, a cab is better, considering the kind of drinking I may be doing.
I am about to turn one year older and very soon I will be a little richer, I guess, and while I’m happy in general, I’m still somehow surprised at how much the day-to-day crap gets me down. I am not blissfully hovering above it all on a big garden swing or even a big disco chandelier like the one Christina Aguilera was lowered in on that one time at the Grammys. I am having to get used to this. I have to keep making decisions.
And maybe the best decision I made this past week was to buy a plane ticket to New York City. The second best one I made was to delete my goddamn Nerve personal ad, because lately it feels I have only one nerve left and it was being stomped on repeatedly. Yeah, enough of that shit.