Spent ma evenin chillin at my corner car shop. Had to get sway links and bushings and stuff fixed up. Eazzy. Car shop is an experience in psychiatry. Much lika doctors office. People are loathing, worried, anxious, mumbling, huddling at free coffee corner like ants at a donut kill. Looking at tires in the waiting room, running their hands over deep tread, wondering when their own rubbers will wear out. Staring at service board for costs. Should I flush my transmission for $75? Can I wait 6 years? Im going to die. I. am. going. to. die. Am I at the recommended 6,204 miles? SWEET LORD. Imma google it. Whats a gasket??? Rhymes with casket. Call mom, seriously, call mom, omg. Nerves. The magazines splayed on the tables are full of pucks and tension from shaking and bored and anxiety-capped car patients. New people walk in and throw their keys on the counter. Shame. Broken. Fix me. I hear a thud when I.... My warm air wont blow at the third notch...i hear a Smiths Longspur rattle when I turn right.... They see another car get pulled into the bay, like a human patient ushered into a padded room, and they jitter. God save its soul... Oh gawd. Gawd. Ive been here for 34.3582 minutes. I wonder how long my appointment will be. Do these people know I still have to buy beer tonight? Shit. Facebook. Must look at updates. Updates. Gotta send a text. I WONT BE HOME TILL 6:22 MY CAR IS UNDER THE KNIFE AND ITS THE APOCALYPSE. SUX. MY LIFE. This is the end, beautiful friend, the end. Of our elaborate plans. The end. The car shop.
Posted on: Tue, 08 Apr 2014 00:51:47 +0000
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