I need attention.
I've been having a rough time. Random expenses keep popping up, and I just moved worksites again after finally getting to work in a home where people are nice and I trust my manager.
Yesterday B asked me to go get him some weed from the city we used to live in, in another state.
Sure.
I'm in the middle of mountainous, desolate wilderness, and I see three young men (who I keep telling everyone IRL were three young girls) hitchhiking on the side of the road. They sincerely look just like boys I went to college with. I double back and pick them up.
Sure. Fine. They're very nice.
I drop the off and promptly head about 20 minutes down the road in what I come to realize is the wrong direction, and I was dissociating hardcore, so I can't remember the last 25 minutes at all. Did I turn somewhere? What have I passed?
I start panicking as I'm not sure if heading the opposite direction is getting me un-lost or more lost. All the houses look sketchy as hell. The churches look completely abandoned. There is no cell phone service, and it's impossible to tell from the (now rapidly setting) sun which way I'm going because the road is as a corkscrew.
I find where I went wrong after nearly 30 minutes of animal panic.
Sure. Okay. Fine.
I go to my old city. I am five minutes from seeing my friends. And I f*cking rear end someone on an entrance ramp I have taken 100,000 times.
We pull into a parking lot.
Their bigass truck is fine. I turn around. My car is f*cked up. Fluid is leaking everywhere. I ask if it will explode, because the puppy is in the car. The people are just the very nicest people you could hit. They say it won't explode, but the engine could seize up. I call my friend while the nice man I hit jerryrigs my messed up hood open.
My friend arrives. He says it's gonna be fine, follow him to his house. The man I hit clearly has a slightly damaged macho ego when my buddy shows up, who is a true Jack of all trades and assesses everything very quickly. The people I hit tell me not to call the police; they'll just write me a ticket. I thank them and apologize profusely.
I follow my friend, who amazingly is not pissed he has to once again fix shit for me on the fly (he's fixed lots of shit for me).
He takes a saw and cuts off half of my bumper. He clips off some rubber. He uses half a roll of masking tape tacking everything up. He sells me a sack and tells me to get home immediately, while I still have some light, and hugs me chastely, then continues taping while I load in.
Sure. Fine.
I'm about forty minutes from home, and suddenly the dark mountain wasteland lights up. Five police officers are in the middle of the road. It's a goddamn checkpoint.
I grab my wallet out and throw my bag, with the stinky marijuana in it, way into the back of my car as I pull up. I start chatting my head off to this officer. My words don't matter. What I am effectively telling him, the subtext, is, "Look how young and white and female I am! I'm educated! I'm old-fashioned! I have a cute puppy! I could be your daughter! I have a cute plaid dress and I'm listening to educational programs!"
He lets me go, even though my license is half melted away, my plates don't match my license, and I'm going to a state irrelevant to either. I'm shaking like a Titanic survivor. Oh, and my car looks like a complete shit show.
Sure. Okay. Fine. Good.
When I'm back home, B calls. He's on his way home from work. When he asks how I am, I stutter a little. He worries. I say I got what he wanted. He relaxes. I say I rear-ended someone and completely f*cked up my car. Eh, whatever, is basically his response.
I try to regale him with my pants-shitting journey. He tells me he can't listen to it. His day hasn't been cake either. Do I think he's had a good time? He can't deal with my nervous energy, he says. It's making him want to argue.
I almost cry. I have been almost crying since I got lost. I stop myself one more time. I leave the room.
Sure. Fine. Whatever.
I go to sleep and have a long cry in my dreams.
f*cking fine.
... I really need some attention. :(