Last time I was here, they handed me the keys with the caveat, ‘if it doesn’t work the first time, just try it again.’
The dealership. The guys who are supposed to know every single thing about the make that they sell.
Sigh. They also suspected that I was turning it on wrong. The car I own, and have owned for almost ten years.
Its my boobs. My boobs are so damn distracting that men of all ages are fucking idiots and think I can’t turn on my damn car because I have breasts.
So. here I am again, same place, because you know, i need my car to turn on every time, and my mechanic insists that the keys have to be programmed by the dealer. he wouldn’t do me wrong, i’m pretty sure. he probably knows i have breasts but he might not have noticed. or, it didn’t matter that much. he certainly thinks i can start my own car.
I’m going to leave here today, hopefully, and buy myself some lottery tickets. One or more, and maybe some scratch tickets, because you know? You just can’t win if you don’t play the game.
also, the coffee machine here is out of order.
I SAY THAT IS OUT OF ORDER!!
(I’m working on my latest writing project in the waiting room here. only 20 K more to go. Did I tell you the whole place is under construction? It is. yes.)
really, its love, i swear.