Make Mine Mike

The first clue something was wrong came when I found a broken piece of plastic on the ground next to my car as I slipped in behind the wheel. Even after I took off and turned left, and the signal blinked more rapidly than normal, I was still oblivious. I guessed I was so sluggish and jonesing for morning caffeine, everything else seemed to be going at twice the speed.

But when I got out at the café, I finally saw the problem: the back corner of my car was dented. The left rear panel was knocked inward, so it stuck out the side, mangled, and the clear plastic protecting the taillight was smashed. It looked the way I felt, but a strong cuppa coffee wouldn’t fix the fender.

On one hand, no big deal. Not only in the grand scheme of things, but even in my little world. The car still runs fine; it’s just cosmetic damage. I never cared about impressing people with my wheels -- if I did, I certainly wouldn’t drive some non-descript reliable mid-sized sedan already with dings and scratches. My hoopty sure as hell ain’t no high-priced Hummer or hybrid.

But I also got pissed off. This is gonna cost just enough to hurt my bank acct., but not enough to make it worth getting the gov’t sanctioned scam artists (i.e., insurance companies) involved. And since I’m leasing, I’ll have to get this repaired sooner or later. All because some careless asshole couldn’t even take the fucking responsibility for turning my street into a demolition derby. If I ever find out who it is, I’m gonna give their skull the Malachi Crunch.

I was keeping my car on the street because I was doing my friend a favor by letting him use my space at my apt. while he was away on vacation. In the meantime, I made sure to get an extra parking permit since I had loaned out my other one. And I was super careful to watch out for the signs about street sweeping, to avoid paying more money to the city of Santa Monica. And what did my consideration and diligence get me? A kick in my car’s ass and a pain in mine.

Shit happens, I guess. Get too philosophical and get frustrated. It’s just a fucked-up fender. Fabricated by the friggin’ fickle finger of fate.

UPDATE:

That night, my bike was stolen. Some asshole must've actually broken the Kryptonite chain lock and swiped the thing. What a day. Glad it's over -- if that kinda luck continued, I'd be afraid to go for a walk and have someone Gilooly my kneecap.