No matter what it is I’m writing, big/small/long/short/fiction/non, I always have trouble with the beginning of it. Every goddamn time. Should it be a question, an opinion, a drunk sloppy slur trickling off the tongue that has absolutely no meaning to anyone but myself? A combination of the three? (“More beer, more beer, more beer!”) It’s such an insignificant thing to struggle over this. Stupid. Just write, why can’t I just tell you what I want to tell you?
I think school did this to me. All the rubrics, all the graded opening statements. Essays, paragraphs, sentences, past tense, present, future. Gahhhhh. There’s always that want to please. The traditional conformation to an imaginary English teacher perched on a floating cloud above me. But why tho? Why not please myself? Why should I structure my creative jizz to add flicker to another’s eye? I don’t wanna learn in a classroom for this reason. I wanna travel and talk to people and eat the food they eat and laugh with them and do the shit they do and learn that way. I wanna better myself as I go, gathering knowledge just for the sake of satisfaction and not be rigorously tested on it. No strings, no harnesses – freedom. I don’t wanna lose passion for the things that I love because of the worry of exams. And deadlines, ugly ugly deadlines. Haha, fuck that. Just read and I will write.
It’s 7:19am. Thursday. I’m currently swiveling in my swively chair in a small ticket booth outside the Spokane airport. Some days that’s the best part of this job. That the chair spins. Hah! I haven’t even been here twenty minutes and already boredom’s setting in. The morning sun is warm, beautiful and comforting and feels wonderful as it makes its way across my skin. My body is tired and my contacts are sticky as all hell. They get blurry if there’s any more than a 5 second interval between blinks. I can fall asleep in here within minutes if I allow myself to. Done it more times than I’d like to admit really. (Shhh!) They need a little cord that connects to a bell that connects to my window, like twenty feet away so when I do nod off, it’ll jangle and wake me and I’ll have ample time to stretch and yawn and there won’t be anymore sudden jerks in front of a carload of disgusted people. You know what I’m talking about tho? Like when you fall asleep during a scary movie and the scene changes to something REALLY FUCKING LOUD and it startles you and you forget who you are, where you are, what you’re wearing and how much time has passed during those first few seconds. That’s me. Usually I’ll conk with sunglasses on so it’s not too obvious, but some days not a single fuck is given. People are cool for the most part, understanding folk. They’ll share a laugh with me, I’ll scan their ticket, and then we’ll part. 2 hours down, 6 to go. Back to nap number fourteen. Haa.
Thursdays are my Mondays. The crabgrass on the lawn of life. I currently work day shift 2 days a week out here as a parking attendant for the Spokane Airport. Thursday mornings and Sunday mornings; 7am-3:30pm. My main gig, a mail clerk for the post office (the factory, not the stations where you go to mail your letters and packages), consists of a killer graveyard that starts at 8:30pm and ends around 5/5:30/6am or whenever we get the mail done and ready for the mailman who comes to your door that afternoon. With the recent closing of the Pasco annex, I currently work 6 days a week with a free Saturday night. So Sunday morning airport is easy, but Thursdays…fuuuuuuck Thursdays. I’ll work my 8 hours at the post office, get off at say 5:30am, drive home, get there around 5:50ish, eat, pack a lunch, maybe shower, leave around 6:30ish, complete my 8 hours at the airport, get home at 4pm, sleep for maybe 3 hours and go back to work at 8:30pm. It kicks my ass. It kicks my ass so stinkin’ bad.
Did I mention I have a third job as well? I’m an event porter for the Spokane Arena/Convention Center/INB. Which pretty much means I’ll help set up chairs/tables/bars/lights/stages or whatever needs to be done before a big convention/event. I am the pre-show before the show. That’s what I like to tell people at least. Sounds cool. Haa. I’ll only work on average, one 8 hour shift a week here, but it’s fun and every day is a new day. Something different happening each time I step through those doors. I love this idea. For example, last Saturday I worked that Bill O’Reilly speech at the INB (shoot me) but this Saturday I get to help with a rooftop wedding at the convention center. Pretty stoked for it, despite the fact that that was my only night off this week and now it’s filled. Which I should be used to by now, but I never am.
All I do is work. That’s pretty much what I do. What my life as a 22 year old consists of. It sucks. Trying to balance three jobs and still have time for friends, sleep, writing, food, summer…me. It’s overwhelming and at times, impossible. I ask myself everyday why I do what I do. How I do what I do. If it’s worth it. Why I sacrifice all my ‘me’ time for a check every Friday and some extra cash in my pocket. Everybody wants to know why. And to be completely honest with you, I, myself, still do not know. To this day, and it’s been, what, almost a year now? I’m greedy I suppose. I like fun money. And I enjoy and won’t hesitate in spending it. I struggle to hold back a snicker when people complain about their 40 hour week. Shiiiiit…I hit my 40 hour mid-Wednesday bro, you got jokes. Haha. I speak the truth tho. My current average week is between a 60-66 hour. Which if I think about it, is fucking ridiculous. I don’t NEED to work as many hours as I do. I could pay the bills just fine with that post office gig. Naw, I CHOOSE to work as much as I do. For a few main reasons.
A. I bought my ’05 Civic on the 1st of January, used from Appleway Honda for $11,559. I’ve got it down to $8,410 with seven months under my belt. My goal is to have it paid off by August 2014. I will accomplish this goal, mark my words, it will happen.
B. I will have completed one year at the airport, September 4th. Post office one year on November 17th. ISS I’m going on a year and 8 months. Doing all of these at the same time? This looks damn good on a resume and I know I’m not the only one who thinks so.
C. I hate being broke. I will never BE broke. There will always be a back-up fund and I pride myself in keeping it that way. Money, by all means, does not equal happiness for me, but I’d much rather cry in a mansion than on a street corner.
D. I like getting paid in experience. Meeting new faces, co-workers, bosses, getting introduced to opportunities, parties, bars, getting OUT, doing shit, filling your time, staying busy, taking that risk, finding inspiration, quitting this job for that one. I like that shit. I’m weary about change, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid of it and willing to jump to the occasion when I wanna jump.
Now for the cons of it all:
A. I’m constantly tired with no energy to do the things I wanna do and when I do get a day/night off (once in a blue moon – I’m currently on 12 days without a full day off which looks like it’ll turn into a 16 at this point), I catch up on sleep.
B. My nightlife is shot, I haven’t experienced a good night downtown since like a month ago. Fuck me.
C. My anxiety flares up at random times throughout my day because I don’t get enough sleep to suppress it.
D. My summer diet goes to shit because I eat constantly for fuel and don’t exercise to compensate for it.
E. I basically have no life. I make no time for myself, which really messes with my well-being after awhile.
Weighing the pros and cons of this job dilemma is constantly in my head. If you were somehow able to access a piece of my mind, you would be amazed at just how much it consumes me on an hourly basis. More thought has been given to it in the past month than the last like six put together. I wanna quit the airport after I complete my year there, but then I don’t. But if I quit, should I replace it with something new? What if I can’t find something new? Should I think about getting rid of the graveyards at the post office? Transfer to a day job somehow? Enroll in some college? Pfft, with this schedule? What about the car payment? Insurance? Rent? I’m never gonna find something that pays as well. Or will I? Why am I so afraid to step out of this comfort zone? Have I just not looked hard enough? Am I being a pessimistic bitch? Why is this so fucking hard?
This is what I do. I over think just about EVERYTHING. This destroys me. I’ll be going on 26 hours with no sleep and finally get a chance for a good night’s rest and won’t be able to because I fail to locate the ‘OFF’ switch. I’ll toss and turn and sweat. Get up to turn the fan on. Stumble to the kitchen for some ice water. Check my Facebook. Check my Twitter. Check my Tumblr. Check my Pinterest. Flip the pillow ‘to the cool side’. Cuss out the blankets because they’re too hot, but they feel good against my skin so I continue to want them. So I sweat some more. And then finally, I just give up and lay there. Just fucking lay there. Do you know how long the darkness lasts when you cannot close your eyes to it?
Starting August 5th, the airport is changing my shift from a Thursday+Sunday ~ 7am-3:30pm to a Monday+Tuesday+Wednesday ~ 6am-12:30pm. I’m not sure what to think of this yet. It’s not a full 8, which is fine, better for me really, but also, it’s three days. In a row. Which will hibernate me into eat-sleep-work mode for the first half of the week. However, my weekends will be the most freed up they’ve ever been since like forever ago. No more hungover Sundays! Oh my god YES! You really have no idea how exciting this is for me. Waking up feeling (and smelling) like death at the ass crack of dawn after a good long night of drinks and friends and having to deal with the public like that?! Rough. Fucking rough man.
Gahhh, I ramble a lot. Too much. It’s bad. Subject blends to subject blends to sub-subject blends to I-don’t-even-know-what. I’m simply shaken tho, not stirred. Restless. My life is blasted all over this page because I can’t help but be me. I HAVE to share myself sometimes. I HAVE to be me. I’ll look at an object and I see a million things you don’t. You see a couch. I see it being made, who sat on it, who fucked on it, what animal died to make it. I’m not one to judge a book by its cover, but without the cover, why would I pick up the book in the first place?
The getting of life is hard. I’ve come to realize this over the past year. Karma, commitment, sacrifice, friendship, love, heartbreak, money, success, failure. It’s all confusing as fuck really. It makes no difference how things get started. What matters is how they end up. Everything else is just doing shit for the sake of doing shit. I’ll get to points where I do things for no reason. Losing logic (what’s left of it anyway) and reason based on adrenaline and hormones. Most days I’ll wake up with desires unquenched. Impulses. There’s just so many things I want, but only so much I can do in a day. Urges seem to come up inside of me out of nowhere. I can usually keep them down, but not away. I’m a bit of a compulsive person. You ask any one of my best friends and they’ll tell you. Spontaneous even. I love spontaneity. I love doing what feels good. About matters of life and sex and activity and friends and food and just everything. I have no destination. I love being the co-pilot just as much as I enjoy being the one behind the wheel.
I don’t know where I’m going with this entry today. I just felt like writing. It’s been too long. February 26th, 2013. Almost 6 months to the exact day too long. Damn. Sooo, see you in six months then? Haa.
Indulgence, that look in your eye. A tone spoken with a guilty iris. Here’s to that contagious little half-smile making it’s way between your lips.
You stand up, try to. I’m here to help you, shaky legs. Balance. Steady. Outside is not far from us. Take me with you. Please, I cannot bear me alone with me. Combining fingerprints, we are the children of euphoric stimulation. Tenderness of molecules, each blossom of skin alive. Witness to mini-rainbows forming in the sprinkler mist of neighboring lawns. Making me giddy. I begin to dance across foreign grass. Soft, wet, green kissing my toes. I feel good, as do you. You tell me this and I laugh at you because you’re laughing at yourself. Squeezing me tighter via palms, I am wearing nothing but you.
You look at me with brand new eyes and I don’t know whether to run or stand rigidly in the light of vulnerability. I have spent months ignoring your gaze in fear that I will never know what it means. Don’t look at me. My face tells nothing of the world inside my head. Our pupils meet and I try to cross the ocean between our two bodies, but I drown long before I reach the shore. These words are tired and as my mouth forms the syllables they taste stale on my tongue.
I want my legs draped over your shoulders. My voice breath-filled and coy. My hands pulling you in closer. My body writhing with joy. Your face buried deep between my thighs. Holding you in place. Your nose filled with my sweet scent. Your tongue dancing with my taste.
Your hair. Your smile. Your voice. Your words. Your kisses. Your hands. Your heart. Your laugh. Your body. Your clothes. Your scent. Your jokes. Your hugs. You.
Maybe these feelings are too strong to capture in words. Maybe a blank page would convey them better than an inked one. Maybe I should stop trying and just let you do you and me do me. Maybe that would lead to a simpler, easier life for the both of us. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe these tears bleed through my writing for a reason. Maybe if I were patient enough to let them dry, this paper in front of me wouldn’t be ugly, soaked, and full of holes in half-hearted attempts to rub them out. Maybe if I didn’t let them fall from my cheeks to begin with, they wouldn’t be there and this problem wouldn’t exist.
Maybe if I stared out this open window long enough, my mind would magically go blank and shit would make sense again. Maybe these thoughts consume me because I allow them to. Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I fear an empty conscience. Maybe that makes more sense to you, than me. Maybe I’m secretly hoping it does.
Maybe I won’t think about you today. Maybe I can make it through my mornings, my afternoons, my evenings, my nights, without letting my curiosity destroy my innocence. Maybe if I threw my head back and closed my eyes tight enough it would fade this obsession. Maybe this wishful thinking is what’s preventing me from accepting the reality of it all.
Maybe in the future, you will teach me lots of cool things, and I will learn them, get good at them, and re-teach you with a smile on my face. Maybe I’ll apologize for not ending this little attachment of ours before feelings took over, but between me and you, I have very few regrets.
Maybe love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own. Maybe love is a natural hallucinogen and I am a fucking addict. Maybe we all are. Maybe love means that you accept a person with all their failures, stupidities, ugly points, and nonetheless, you see perfection in imperfection itself. Maybe when you truly love someone, age, distance, height, weight, and salary are just numbers. Maybe I am just crazy. Maybe I am o-fucking-kay with that.
Maybe I will never ever, in a million years, figure out why pain penetrates deeper internally than ex. Maybe this mystery was never ever, in a million years, meant to be figured out.
Maybe this music will numb me. Maybe if I turn the volume knob far enough to the right, it will drown out my bad intentions and leave my soul somewhat pure again. Maybe fuck pure. Maybe pure is the antagonist here; the backbone to false being, closed minds, and a society watered down with status and statistic. Maybe sometimes in this boring, scheduled life, this waiting-for-Friday-night life that we all lead, we just need the world to remind us that not everything is perfect. Maybe flaws are pretty, too. Maybe there’s some beauty in the breakdown. Maybe there are more people than I think who feel the same way as I do. Maybe you are one of them. Maybe I’m just losing my fucking mind.
Maybe Anxiety won’t get the best of me today. Maybe if I cut the bad fruit off the tree, there would be no reason for me to be anxious. Maybe this fruit is sweet as a motherfucker though and I love the way it leaves my tongue longing for more. Maybe I feel more alive when my heart beats as fast as it does because of this. Maybe there is too much brain in my head. Maybe I like playing my cards wrong. Maybe I enjoy the chaos.
Maybe the best way to appreciate something is to be without it for awhile. Maybe this would allow for my past to make me a better person in my current state instead of a bitter one. Maybe nothing ever becomes real until it is experienced. Maybe I haven’t grasped this concept to the best of my abilities yet. Maybe soon, I might.
Maybe being strong just isn’t for me. Maybe I should embrace my sad side and let it take me wherever the fuck it chooses to take me. Maybe every bit of sadness in my life only serves to make the good bits sweeter. Maybe the problem contains the solution. Maybe I already know this, but refuse to swallow it.
Maybe I should calm down, take a deep breath, and relax. Maybe if I could, I would. Maybe fuck calm. Maybe I should punch today in the face. Maybe Anxiety is denying me this oxygen as a form of cruel punishment and there’s no way to escape it so I shouldn’t try to. Maybe I don’t know me like I thought I did. Maybe I should put this cigarette out now, seeing as I don’t smoke and I can’t remember how it got between my lips in the first place.
Maybe if I put more mascara on tomorrow morning, the dark circles lingering below my eyes won’t be so noticeable. Maybe these pair of Tylenol on the table in front of me would kick in faster accompanied by a good tall glass of whiskey and Coke. Maybe I am stuck in memory lane because I love running into you. Maybe in order to regain traction I have to forget it all. Maybe I can’t bring myself to do that right now. Maybe I have to make myself not want you or else you’re all I think about. Maybe the word ‘maybe’ should be void in that last sentence.
Maybe I love losing myself in you, running my fingers through your hair, down your temple, kissing you everywhere until your smell lingers on me even after you’re gone. Maybe I take pleasure in indulging in you. Maybe locking your fingers, your legs, your lips, between mine when we fuck is worth every minute of the nostalgia of the replay. Maybe sometimes I wonder how different your replays are compared to mine.
Maybe you make me happier than you’ll ever know. Maybe I crave your youth, that spunk you carry yourself with, and maybe I enjoy dwelling in your energy because it brings out the best of mine. Maybe there was meaning behind the words we exchanged. Maybe sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places. Maybe I’m just a dreamer who should have more realistic hopes.
Maybe I’m making this worse by writing about it. Maybe this is the only way I know how to extract my emotion and cope with it. Maybe fuck you for loving me. Maybe fuck me for the same damn reason. Maybe you are my question. Maybe you are my answer. Maybe you are neither. Maybe all we need is time to figure out who we are, what this is, and where we want to go with it. Maybe we will never know.
Maybe you understand this more than I ever will.
As the evenings become cooler and night closer to day, we are reminded of the changes in season. The changes within ourselves. Each spring we smolder, waiting to burn through the summer passion that we accept or want to be waiting at our door. Ideas, lovers, ideals. Year after year – disappointment. The passion escapes us. A snowman made of sand. But not this one.
The ‘it’ is there as we hoped. The ‘it’ burns hot. Suddenly, everything is interesting. The creases in our palms. The blood in our veins. The history of us. We begin to connect mutual urges of curiosity, thinking thoughts on a level that is solely ours. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Reevaluating the noise you feed me over pillows no one else can hear. Entangled in each other; hands venture, exclusive pleasure. When your body and mine lie together under a white sheet. The whole long continent of you. The pale ridgeline of your collarbone and hip and thigh. The comforting filling and refilling of your chest. The warmth I so completely get lost in. There is nothing that needs to be explained. But how did we get here? Do we belong? Why are we always so shy on the answers?
Relaxed and patient, we submit to the flux of our present feeling. Changing the way we think about each other with every new encounter. Bringing you down to things you can’t conceive. Knowing that it is I who have done it. Seeing your wonderful spirit dependent upon the obscenity of your need. Witnessing you as you are, as you face the world with your clean, proud strength. Then to see you, in my bed, surrendering to any infamous whim I may devise. With your guilty little half smile. Watching your dishonor. To which you’ll submit to for the sake of an unspeakable sensation. You are the boy who wonders into hearts without knocking or wiping your feet, my love. I am the girl who says goodbye but never really lets go. We are the aimless, the lost, the constant consumers of endless fascination.
And now, as the evenings become cooler, night closer to day, we are reminded of the changes in season. Crisp autumn air stimulating fresh relations. Inhale. Exhale. We breath each other in and through and down and out. The wants, the needs. Via you. Via me. The faults, the flaws, the imperfections, the personality extractions. I’ve spent hours contemplating the words to say to you, but no combination of twenty six different letters could ever accurately capture even a sliver of what this feeling is. Yet I continue to want it. I need it really. You are both my umbrella and my rain. But I will always be left trying to figure out how that can be.
This will be my first Halloween without a pumpkin, a costume, or a plan. Well maybe the second. Or the third. Or the fourth. (Who keeps track of these things?!) I’m not very good at planning shit, so it’s one of those events that just kinda comes as it goes. A day on the calendar that adds enough excitement to make an October interesting, but at the same time, isn’t heavily missed when it’s over. Take Martin Luther King Day for a relevant example.
A. – I’m not in any form of school anymore, so three day weekends are an endangered species, seeing as I always end up working them anyways.
B. – I’m not black.
C. – I hate history.
I think I’ll just be the same thing as last year. Pretty sure I’ve been the ’same thing as last year’ 3 times now. (Mainly because I’m lazy and usually choose to sit on my creativity rather than embrace it. Which will eventually be the death of me.) Last year consisted of black fishnets, a pair of slutty stilettos, and a fancy little red bra with lace outlining the straps and back section. I was the naughty nurse!
I honestly love being the naughty nurse. The attention received when I stand 6’3 with not much more than a few pieces of lingerie on is so fucking energizing. Especially when my best friend (Megon Witter, you have been tagged!) is not much shorter than I am and we go paint the town red together. All the shifty eyes, the nervous weight distribution shifts, the free drinks in the process of being mixed, purchased, and consumed. It’s such a trip. I love the nightlife. I love it all.
I actually won the costume from an online sweepstakes via Torrid.com. Now, if you haven’t heard of these guys, they’re a clothing store (there’s one in Northtown Mall, I believe) who specialize in sexy lingerie, denim, accessories, blah blah blah. Catch: They specialize in all those things…for plus-size women. I wasn’t aware of this at the time, so you can imagine my surprise when I open my prize to find a 40DD bra and what looks like a little red hammock. Which, under more thorough examination, turns out to be a thong. A gigantic red thong. (When I put it on, it looks like I’ve broken my arm because it’s pristine size for a sling, no fucking joke. Haha!) The box also came with an assortment of other nurse related paraphenilia that were one-size-fits-all tho, so there were definitely enough goodies to work with to piece a costume together. With the purchase of a new bra and panties, of course. Check and check.
The only downfall to my get-up is how damn cold it gets on the night of the 31st. And the lack of clothing on my body drops my tolerance level of temperature (which never really consisted of much to begin with) to a borderline unbearable. Unless of course I’m liquored up. In which case it could dip below zero and you’d still find me with a smile on my face, despite the fact that I’m drunk, naked, and making snow angels in the neighbors’ yards. (“Merry Christmaaaaas!!!” As I recycle my empty Heineken bottle to form Frosty’s nose.)
I can’t even remember where we ended up last Halloween, honestly. Or for that matter, where we started. (Obviously I must have been minus a camera because I’m usually pretty good at documenting shit like that.) This year I wanna find a hoppin’ house party with good people, good music, and a fridge full of good beer. Simple as that. I was actually giving thought to walking up and down EWU or Gonzaga’s campuses. But that would almost be too easy. My handicap of not having a vehicle may come into play here, considering I work 7am Thursday morning, but then again I wouldn’t have to cross that bridge ’til I got to it. (Which would probably be puffy-eyed and dehydrated on a stranger’s couch, 1o minutes before my scheduled clock-in time.) There’s always alternative methods of transportation when you’re dedicated enough tho. STA (the city bus) is effective. As are legs. As are friends with cars; they are the best kind.
I even went shopping for candy this year. For the (non-existent) trick or treaters who trick or treat apartment complexes, of course! Yea okay, so I gave in to my vice and bought a ten dollar bag of Milky Ways and Snickers. For myself. (I was in need of some Halloween spirit. That’s the excuse I tell myself at least.) Which I later regretted and realized I didn’t need any of in the first place. Self-control doesn’t kick in for me until I’m like three chocolates from the bottom of the bag. On a 30-count bag. I know this. I’ve always known this. My sweettooth’s kicked my ass on multiple occasions, but I continue to allow it to. (This goes for alcohol as well. I can’t help but be concerned for my health after I take my lost shot four times.)
My worst transgression has got to be caramels. Actually, pretty much anything chewy. Milk Duds, Air Heads, Starbursts, Mamba, Hot Tamales, Cinnamon Bears, Bit-O-Honey, Big Hunk. The list goes on forever. I’ve resorted to single-serving sizes because there’s way too much guilt associated with these the next day. The next hour. Whatever. Haha.
Enough about Halloween, I’m stoked for tonight! October 25th, 2012 equals…Zella’s 21st birthday! I saw a wonderful cake idea on Tumblr a long time ago and it was the funniest shit ever. I bookmarked it because I had to do it. So I did.
I can’t cook or bake for shit, so I bought a basic white cake from Rosauers. An undecorated one. Well, I guess it had a frilly border and a little bit of added color on the corners, but that was fine. I did the writing first, in pink frosting it reads: “HAPPY 21ST BITCH!” Then I added the toilet, which is actually a funny story.
I must have went to 10+ thrift/secondhand stores, on numerous occasions mind you, in search of a damn toilet that would be somewhat size proportional to a Barbie doll. I was cool with an independent mission at first, this’ll be easy, Goodwill’s got shitloads of old Happy Meal toys and such, right? Fuck. I was up and down that aisle more times than the unsupervised five year olds who practically lived there. No luck! It got to the point where I was a few days away from my deadline so I would scout out the store associates for assistance. Do you know how awkward (hilarious really) it is to ask for help when the goal object of your search is a goddamn Barbie toilet?! Very fucking. Haha! But even then, I just could not find one!
The day before Zella’s big day, I visited Boo Radley’s and sure as shit, they have a ‘toilet shot glass’ sitting on the shelf. Boom! All I needed now was a Barbie, a ’2′, a ’1′, some candles, and a canister of colorful sprinkles, which were all conveniently checked off my list via the Dollar Tree on 29th Avenue. Woo hoo!
It actually turned out better than expected. Maybe it’s because I compare myself to the doll’s condition and get a good laugh, knowing damn well I was in a similar state on my 21st. (Props to Barbie for finding the toilet tho, I wasn’t quite that lucky. Haha!) Damn good times. A spectator for tonight’s little outing shouldn’t be too painful tho. Really, really, really looking forward to it actually.
Driving has always been a struggle for me. Not so much skill-wise, but more of a faulty equipment-wise battle. I love my car, don’t get me wrong. First car, convertible, decent gas mileage, 134,000 current miles, nice AUX radio for the Ipad. It’s just…broken. And I think it always will be. Anytime I get ahead of the game and manage to go without an inconvenience for a few months, something huge goes down to make up for it. It never fails.
For example, last year’s July was a motherfucking motherfucker. One day, I walk out of the apartment to find the contents of MY ENTIRE oil tank in a massive black puddle under my car. New oil sending unit – 100 bucks. Not even a week later, my power steering cuts out, my radiator fluid’s leaking, and my car overheats for no apparent reason. “I did nothing to deserve this! Why?!” (I ask myself this often, but always end up with mixed results. Karma’s a confusing bitch sometimes man.) Despite my frustration, I signed shit and got it fixed. A good grand, just POOF, out of my bank account.
I’ve had a lot of shit happen between now and then. I made a snazzy little list (below) covering just the key mechanical issues (there’s a bunch not there, believe me) I’ve had to get worked on since I bought my Lebaron back in August of 2010.
My most recent dilemma was Saturday evening on my way home from work. I’m climbing up High Drive and suddenly, I’m shaking. Like a violent side-to-side wobble, specifically on my front end. This scares the shit out of me so I immediately pull over to the curb.
I’ve felt this feeling before when my back brakes went out last winter and my driver’s rear tire came loose, rolling beside me as sparks were flying from the pavement/axle contact. Having one of your tires come off while driving is the scariest fucking thing ever. I shit you not. Anything remotely close to a weird sound now and I’m paranoid. Music knob goes counter-clockwise, every single dashboard icon is scanned for even a hint of light. This feeling sucks and will always be in the back of my mind without me being able to help it.
Anywho, back to Saturday, I get out of the car, nervous as fuck and do a walk around. Obviously, I don’t find anything. I really don’t know what I’m looking for in the first place to be honest. Haha. I get back in. Get back on the road. 10-20-30. More wobbles. I notice right around 35 is where the trigger point is, and anything under, I’m perfectly fine. WTF!!! At this point, I’m thinking, hey atleast we live a block down from Les Schwab. Which is of course where I’m headed. Which is of course closed on Saturdays after 5. (It was 5:11 pm when I pulled into their parking lot.) Fuck my life.
Long story short, I brought it in today (Sundays are closed as well, so I had to wait two looong days for a diagnosis) to a guy named Isiah. Nice dude! Totally thorough in explaining to me what he found in ‘non-mechanical’ terms because I am by far the most mechanically backward person you’ll meet. He told me my front brakes were almost metal to metal and that the driver’s side axle was leaking grease at a rapid rate and had been for quite some time. He also said I was close to rubbing the driver’s tire raw because of the lack of grease, which would have resulted in it coming loose. Flashbacks. Nasty, nasty flashbacks.
A paycheck later, my car is once again temporarily ‘fixed’. Fuck this shit tho, I absolutely hate sinking my money into something I know is a lost cause in the end. So therefore, I’m forcing myself to look for a new rig. Preferably one I’d make payments on. Off a lot. Which scares me because the whole idea of debt scares me. But it must be done. My advice to you; DO NOT RESPOND TO A CRAIGSLIST AD WITH PICTURES OF A RED 95′ CHRYSLER LEBARON. I’m saving you thousands of dollars, trust me.
MY RAP SHEET (STARTING WITH THE LATEST MESS)
6/25/2012 – $558.76 – Front Brakes (Rotors, Calipers, Disc Pads, Axle)
5/8/2012 – $47.10 – Oil Change
11/22/2011 – $24.62 – Oil Change
8/22/2011 – $265.01 – Cooling Fan Motor & Relay
7/11/2011 – $746.84 – Timing Belt, Water Pump, & Upper Radiator Hose
7/6/2011 – $236.84 – Power Steering Pressure & Switch
7/2/2011 – $100.75 – Oil Sending Unit
4/18/2011 – $31.29 – Oil Change
3/29/2011 – $260.60 – Snow Tires & Install
1/26/2011 – $54.57 – Oil Change & Flat Repair
1/6/2011 – $990.43 – Rear Brakes (Drums, Bearings, Rotors, Spindles, Hubs)
12/8/2010 – $135.87 – Driver’s Window Replacement
Total Expenses – $3,452.68
period: WAKE UP ASSHOLE, YOU GOT CRAMPS.
period: How bout an entire chocolate cake for breakfast?
period: How’s that back pain? Feeling better? Let’s fix that.
period: Corneas glance by a Glamour magazine on the table. Instantly horny.
period: Find a cookie as big as a house and eat it.
period: See a male specimen of any kind. Instantly horny.
period: Where’s your Tic Tac box filled with ibuprofen?
period: Got things to do? Don’t care. Sleep.
period: See a female specimen of any kind. Instantly horny.
period: For dinner you’re eating an entire bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
period: Breeze blows by. Instantly horny.
period: You didn’t like those brand new underwear right?
period: Yell at a puppy.
period: Close eyes and wait for the repeat of today, tomorrow.