(if you read this once, well, now there’s more…cause I had to add an epilogue…)

Tim: Why are there dots on the passenger side rear tire?

Me: Dots??….

Tim: “Dots” as in: this-is-a-new-tire dots?

Me: Don’t they all have dots? Don’t they replace ALL the tires?

Tim: Uhhh…no. Why would they do that? The LEFT rear tire is the one with the piece of metal. Did they replace that one, too?

Me: How the hell would I know? I just drive.

After further inspection, turns out they replaced the WRONG DAMN TIRE.

So I had to drive all the way back to the dealership this morning.

IN THE RAIN.

For those who don’t live in Atlanta: Rain = competent driving amnesia.

Amnesia as in: everyone drives like a complete fucking moron.

Actually, it’s that way in the sunshine too…and the dark. What about ice? Or snow?

You better hope you drive a military grade tank.

Except me, of course. I’m exempt. I’m an excellent driver (think: Rainman).

Last night, the realization of what I would be subject to AGAIN resulted in a shot of vodka and a cupcake (Buff-tober took a backseat and I’ll be the failure of the day with the badge of shame. There was no better solution to end the fuck-tastic day I had…PLUS the one I’d get to enjoy in less than 12 hours).

You’d think I just imagined these things to embellish life…make something simple fifteen billion times more interesting…

Well, I certainly did not fucking imagine driving 100 shitty ass miles two damn days in a row only to sit and wait on a fucking car…

…waiting today for a tire that COULD NOT BE REPLACED because IT WASN’T LEAKING…because the warranty only covers LEAKING TIRES…because the “new” tech that worked on the damn car yesterday FORGOT TO MENTION THAT HE CHECKED BOTH REAR TIRES and the one that was replaced…the RIGHT ONE…was leaking…while the one we came in about…the one that had the metal shank in the tread…THE LEFT TIRE…was JUST FUCKING FINE.

Welcome to my life.

Every. Damn. Day.

I’m not even sure how I manage to get out of bed without accidently blowing up the kitchen or breaking the wall or splitting the toilet in two.

If something can go wrong, it does. And it will. I’m like that character in a movie who has the little black rain cloud following her everywhere.

The difference…I don’t become all psycho and go on a midnight, murderous rampage for revenge that lands me in solitary confinement all, “I swear I’ve changed! It was the traffic! THE TRAFFIC! And the damn coffee was fucking decaf for the third time in a WEEK!”

Instead, I get royally pissed off and write about it.

Fear thee who steps across my patience line, because I WILL DESTROY YOU.

And maybe one day all this writing will pay off…

Pay off as in someone will finally learn from all of these mistakes and move the hell outta my way.

And Tim, bless him.

Not only is he getting his ass handed to him at work this week, which has resulted in stress level code red, he also put up with my bitching all day yesterday, including me telling him, “You totally take me for granted.”

When he came in the door last night after work, he walked in holding a bouquet of FLOWERS all, “thank you, sweetie, for taking my car in today.”

Then he made cupcakes.

Of course, we had no frosting, because I purged the house of items that result in non-buffness, so I offered to go to the store to get some. I mean, HE BOUGHT ME FLOWERS.

And as I hop in my car to drive the two miles to the store, I look down at my little gas gauge, cause I haven’t gotten gas in forever and figured I’d be running on fumes…especially since Tim took my car for the day while I took his to get the tires fixed…so I just KNEW I would have to do the dreaded deed of putting in the car food so I wouldn’t be stranded somewhere…

And my eyes about popped out of my head…and then I almost hit a tree while doing a double-take…because the little gas arrow was on “F.”

Not only did he buy me FLOWERS and make delicious cupcakes…

He fucking FILLED UP MY CAR WITH GAS.

Whatever award that’s on par with the Purple Heart they give military people…he wins that one.

***EPILOGUE****

After Tim read this, he was all, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you say ‘fuck’ more in your entire life.”

Me: I was mad! And how do YOU know that was the most…ever? You haven’t known me MY WHOLE LIFE.

Tim: Uhhh…you NEVER say fuck. You get all uptight when I say fuck.

Me: What’s your point?

Tim: You don’t say fuck.

Me: WOULD YOU STOP, ALREADY You’re soiling my ears.

Tim: ….did you actually read your post?

So, I said fuck like, 300 times.

IT WAS THE FUCKING TRAFFIC!

FINE.

301.