Make every touch electrical

This is going to be a long post, and there won't be any pictures. Not even any goofy ones of me laying on the floor looking smug for no reason (other than, you know, always being both correct and awesome). I would apologize in advance, but I don't particularly care.

Let's recap what I've been doing for the last few days. If I want to keep the recap brief, I can say I've been watching The Mindy Project pretty much non-stop. I got super addicted to it super fast. I finished the first season last night, and Allen came in and rained on my parade, so I'll have to start the second season when I get home tonight. That's the quick version.

Here's the long version:

Tuesday: I picked up my car from the shitfuck dealership I had it at. I drove it home, even though I knew it was going to die (uh, upon reflection, I think I may have already written about this part. I already know I repeat myself. So, pretty much, suck it fuckers). To my immense delight, it didn't. I took it in for an oil change, and after I had walked home from Jiffy Lube, I got a call asking me if there was a trick to starting my car. Fuck. I told them no, but would they mind trying to jump it for me? Thankfully, they didn't. Even more thankfully, my car started. But that's skipping ahead. I called the dealership again, had the expected, "Hey, you fucking idiots, thanks for sending me out and saying my car is fine because guess what it's not" conversation, though I was ten times more polite about it. They recommended that I replace my battery, because if I bought my battery from Auto Zone...which I did...I was clearly cheap and that's why my battery failed and why my car wouldn't start. This didn't sound right to me, so I took my car from Jiffy Lube and drove it to Auto Zone, petrified my car was going to die as I made a turn into an intersection, and I'd get slammed by somebody, and then I'd be dead. It's just where my head goes. Auto Zone tested my battery, my starter, and my alternator. Everything came up roses (not literally. I mean, if I had roses for a battery, starter, and alternator, then I would obviously know why my car was having trouble. Those things aren't conducive to running a vehicle, though they are lovely to look at). The guy I was talking to at Auto Zone pulled two codes from my car: a TCM code, and a PCM code. I asked him if that would make my car suck at being a car, and he said most definitely. So. Called the dealership AGAIN, told them the battery idea they gave me sucked, and here are the codes I have from my car. Would that make my car do what it did? Yes, the fellow said. They told me to tow my car back in. Fat chance of that, I'm a daredevil (or an idiot, whichever. I think the two are pretty well interchangeable). So I drove it back in, because I can go fuck myself, that's why. I didn't drive it in until Thursday, though. I made an appointment at 11:30 for my car to be looked at. Again. Tuesday night, I asked Allen if he wanted me to make manicotti for dinner, since it was Christmas Eve and all, and we should do something nice together since we didn't have anybody else to spend it with. He didn't, he said that was too involved. I don't even remember what we ate, but it doesn't really matter. We had dinner, then sat on the couch and watched movies and chatted together.

Cue Christmas!

Wednesday: I woke up, made myself some exceptionally tasty coffee (that's the closest thing I have to a Christmas tradition, aside from getting drunk at some point in the day), woke Allen up because I was bored, and he made me buttermilk pancakes with raspberry sauce. That's how we roll. Went to his family's house, ate a shitload of food, drank even more shitloads of booze (my favorite thing to drink in that house is a mix of apple pie whiskey and fireball whiskey. It tastes like fall, and it gets me drunk. Aw yiss), stole the book I bought for Allen, and hid myself away downstairs for the three hours it took me to read it. It crushed my feelings, which I'm also aware that I wrote about. But this is a comprehensive recap. Chris was the only friend of mine that showed up (Stevie and Mike fell asleep at her parents' house, Holly had a hangover, Tosh and Ryan's car broke down because I think I'm contagious, and Sara spent the day with her family), so we all visited with each other for a little bit, with my tear soaked face. But everybody knows better than to make fun of me when I'm emotionally broken after reading a book. Allen passed out pretty early once we got home, so I went to the park. I fell asleep under the trees for a little bit, and when I woke up, I was startled, to say the least. My coffee that I brought was cold and not the best wake-up companion. I walked back home, crawled into bed, and went on to dream about the stars. This is true.

Thursday: Starbucks day. I didn't bring my camera to creep on anybody, but I did sit and enjoy my iced chai soy latte (obviously with cinnamon powder), and I watched everybody interact. It was lovely. People watching is one of my favorite activities when I have nothing else to do. I took my car back in to the dealership from whence it came, even though they're retards. Allen's dad picked me up and dropped me off at Stevie's. She and I fucked around for a little bit, then we went to Petsmart, where I had to exercise all of my restraint to keep myself from buying the cutest fucking rat I've ever seen. I still need my super big cage from Stevie, and then I am definitely buying one more rat. I love my boys, they make me super happy. Stevie and I went back to GMC to see if they'd just figure something out so I could get my fucing rental car that is clearly stated in my warranty that I get if they have to keep my car overnight due to either repairs, or lack of being able to diagnose, or the apocolypse, or whatever the fuck. It's in there, but they were fucking bastards. I don't know if it helped that we were talking to the manager, who thought he was so cool for being the manager, and was also super conservative, and Stevie thought it would be funnier to pass us off as a couple. He was not amused with our lesbian antics, and he flat out refused to talk to me, and just gave me withering glances and kept calling me "your FRIEND" very pointedly when talking to Stevie. We thought it was hilarious that he was such a homophobic cocksucker, but I think it may have bitten me in the ass. He didn't help us at all. Stevie dropped me off at home, and then HER car died. I really, really, really am contagious. Keep me out of your cars, everyone! I get a call a couple of hours later from GMC, saying that they have to do a repair to start diagnosing things properly, but here was the kicker: if it fixed the problem, it's covered under my warranty. If it DOESN'T fix the problem, I had to pay the 400 bucks to repair it, and then they could just keep tinkering. Well, fuck a whole lot of that. So I went and picked up my car. Allen's dad took us there, and followed Allen and I home to make sure that if my car went kaput en route, I wasn't stranded. I stopped and got us Pita Pit, and then I got myself a big fucking bottle of Oakheart Rum, because damn it all, I was going to get wasted. I did make it home without incident. I fell asleep on the couch watching The Mindy Project.

Friday. Yesterday. By far my most favorite fucking day of the week, because I sure as fuck raised twenty shitstorms: I picked Alen up from work, and I felt bold enough to run an errand. Mistake! My car died again. So, after I got it to start again, I drove it home and called GMC. I asked for the service manager, because at this point, I'd fucking had it. They didn't connect me to the service manager, they connected me to the condescending fuckface that's been dealing with me the entire time. Can I talk to your manager was the first question I asked, and of course, the manager isn't there. Put me through to his voicemail was my next statement, but that didn't fly. So, I let Anthony have it. Insofar as I could, at any rate. I started off by saying that they'd been doing an awful lot of fucking guesswork on my vehicle, and they're asking me to make gambles with 400 dollars that I can't afford at the moment for something that might not work, and if he's a car technician, why can't he figure out what's going on? This is when he started to talk over me, and that's when I got NASTY. I may have used the word ineptitude, I may have also used the words "fucking rude" and "god damn useless". When I say may have, this time I mean I actually didn't. I definitely did use the word ineptitude, but I didn't swear, and I was absolutely firm when I could get a word in edgewise, but I was never, EVER that rude. The conversation ended with me being told that they refused to work on my car, because there were too many problems, me demanding to be put through to the service manager's voicemail, and him hanging up on me. I didn't even know what to do at that point. So, I did the only thing my brain could think of: I threw my phone...um...very gently at the couch, because I didn't want to break it, but I did want to throw a temper tantrum...and I sat down in the middle of the living room, looked at Allen and said, "I'm so fucking frustrated!" and then I cried. I cried hard. For about five minutes. Then I called my dealership back, and talked to two different managers. Who were both SO FUCKING AMAZING. They were kind, and patient, and the first manager I talked to, Andy, was very understanding when I started to cry on the phone. I definitely appreciated that. Anyway, they told me to go to Al Serra, they made the appointment for me, and I have to bring my car in on Monday morning. Stevie and I were supposed to go to Tucanos, because she said she wanted to do something nice for me since I'd had such a terrible week and a half, but that fell through. So, Allen made me chicken parmesan (he makes it better than I do, which frankly makes me mad) to cheer me up. It was delicious. We watched two episodes of The Mindy Project, then we watched Pacific Rim (which was so fucking stupid, but in a way that I completely enjoyed) and then we started a Rifftrax, but Allen went to bed. Understandably, I was fucking shithammered the entire evening. I started drinking at 9, and didn't stop until 1. I know I was texting Derek all night, but I didn't want to read the conversation we had, because I'm an idiot when I'm drunk. I remember some of it, but it makes me bush. This is why I shouldn't be allowed to text men when I'm drunk and they're out of town. It's a catalyst that creates an awkward situation for me in the morning. It doesn't matter how much sex I've had with someone, or how intimate we are at that point in time. Those two things combined...me drunk, and someone out of town...are never, ever going to make something positive.Though he texted me this morning with, "...Did we survive the night?" So I told him I stayed up until 3 watching Law and Order SVU (Truth! I watched another episode when I woke up at 7 this morning), and I flat out refused to read anything I said to him yesterday night, because I didn't want to embarrass myself. We've been chatting away, so I couldn't have been THAT drunk and stupid. Either that, or I was and he finds it charming. Which is possible. People are weird.

It's been an interesting few days. I'm hoping that my bad car luck is almost over. I haven't been able to go to my gym, so I wasted this month's membership (between being sick and being carless), but walking damn near everywhere has been nice. Cold, and it makes me cough, but nice just the same.

So that's my long winded recap of everything that's gone on.

Despite my frustration, I've actually been in a fantastic mood the last few days. Fantastic. I'm thinking of taking a long, long, LONG walk when I get home and taking pictures, because I haven't really taken any lately. I've missed it. I'm supposed to go out with my friend Nick and take pictures some time soon, but I've had to keep putting it off. Maybe I'll see if he wants to go out tonight.