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turbogrrlProf xxxxx-
The summary is that I will be missing class today, and would also like to request more time for the homework assignment.
It should begin, I think, with my ex, who left – well, it was a good while ago now, but it's really not important when he left, or where he left to (the land of milk and honey, the land of sunshine and storms, san francisco, the valley, land of the kool-aide that must be drunk in order to turn a profit), but in fact, what he left behind. He left behind his car, an impractical car made even more impossible by the addition of a roll bar which removed the ability to, say, put anything in the back seat, or recline. Not that I recline when driving, but as a passenger reclining is perfectly acceptable and even desirable but still– not something a passenger of this car could ever do. And it, the car, hereafter referred to as Scum, broke. Often. I had my own car, of course, that also broke often, and the multitudes of breaking were more than one person should reasonably be expected to bear.
Also, and this part is somewhat inexplicable, but it seems that Scum had a sort of magnetic personality, or perhaps a kick-me sign. Men would drive into this car. I went from never having had a collision with another person, to three collisions, all in one year. First, there was the pastor, who decided to take his New Beetle right, at a red light, and around a bus that admittedly had pulled rather haphazardly into the bus stop– but still, if the pastor hadn't taken the right at a No Turn On Red red light this would not have been a problem– so, widely around the bus, and quickly, and really, not quite considering where he was going but happy he was Past That Bus, and oh- right into the side of my car.
Rather than moving his car out of the street, he instead wanted to stand and lecture me, as clearly Scum should not have been there, in front of his car, and he was a pastor, and really, if I didn't give him $20 for his cracked license plate frame right then I would be Going To Hell, yes I would, no he did not want to exchange insurance information, no, he would leave it up to my conscience for being in his way, and kids today. (He drove into my wheel, which bent the tie-rod into a very interesting shape- the car would only drive straightish if the wheel was cocked at a 45 degree angle, and then would shuffle in a manner reminiscent of charlie chaplin because the wheels were now pointing at each other rather than straight ahead. Turns, when attempted, would make the tires scream faintly somewhat like a baby might, if it had been locked in the trunk. Fortunately, if one is so inclined, it is possible to replace the tie rod in a driveway, but one must still obtain a new tie tod, and that cost $200.)
And then there was the businessman in the BMW, who thought that rush hour traffic in Bethesda was a fine time to stare at his radio, or his lap, or nosehairs, I wasn't really clear on what, but whatever it was it was more important than the red light. Or Scum, in front of him. I got out of the car, and looked at our cars, kissing– fortunately he'd run into the license plate– but still, there he was, in his car, refusing to look up as I banged on his window. Finally, he deigned to push the button, and still, not looking at me but rather somewhere in the vicinity of his A pillar, remarked that surely he hadn't hit me that hard. Since he refused to talk to me or give me his name and I was late to dinner I took down his vin and license plate as I'd already noted the shop he took his car to. Mechanics, I've found, are almost always very friendly to me, and it's amazing what information can be had just by asking nicely. After I got back into my car (we'd been blocking traffic on 355 all this time) he tried to speed away from me, perhaps in embarrassment or just annoyance, but this was rush hour and as it happened (not my fault) he was going to the same neighborhood I was. On the side streets, he was clearly desperate to lose me at this point, but every route he chose just brought me back behind him eventually. If I hadn't been late to dinner I might have followed him just to see what he would do.
But finally there was the guy in the gas station parking lot who decided that he wanted to back his large truck up, without looking, and ignoring my horn and his own beeep-beep-beepbeepbeepBEEEP of a dipshit-there-is-something-behind-you warning system, and drove straight into the side of Scum. The door was badly dented, and as I got out and looked at the door and then walked over to the truck, he looked at me and then peeled out of the gas station. This was stupid, as I both knew what truck he was driving and his license plate and we were in a gas station for pete's sake where there are cameras
everywhere. I felt somewhat bad for him later; his name was Snodgrass, and honestly if I'd been stuck with a name like Snodgrass I might well go around driving into things in anger, but stupidly he lied about it to the police despite the clear video of the entire event, and it took many many months for the police to track him down.
All of this for a car I didn't even willingly take. And then the engine light came on, not the cute one that says 'oh, you forgot to tighten the gas cap' but the one that says 'oh, you have to rebuild your engine and that costs as much as a semester of tuition'. That light. Except, these are in fact the *same* light, and one must take the car to a mechanic who will tell you which it is because it is not possible to have a car computer tell the *owner* what went wrong. So, really–and I think anyone who knew these things would be hard-pressed to disagree with me– Scum had to go. Fortunately, another ex was enchanted with the idea of taking on an accident-prone, broken, impractical car (I really hope I can avoid drawing the obvious parallel of having dated me), and somehow he convinced his fiancee (a lovely girl) that this was a brilliant idea. Thus I got rid of Scum and had money for another semester. I told my other ex, that I was ditching his car, but he seems to be not talking to me, at least not answering my email, perhaps because I am not holding on to this reminder of all we shared or perhaps because I call the car Scum, and perhaps he's always felt that the name is a reflection on him somehow. But I'm not the one who stuck a "Die yuppie scum" sticker on the back. Somehow the obvious irony was lost on him, even when he put the sticker on. So mostly Scum refers to the sticker, and only rarely to the person who placed it there. But I suppose even the rarely would sting.
However, selling Scum left me without a daily driver. I was done with complicated cars, I just wanted a nice inexpensive reliable car that I could use in winter to visit my family in cold and snow-prone places, I definitely didn't want another car with a silly engine computer that I couldn't even talk to. And I found one, and his name is Hans (he reached his majority named Hans, it seemed impolite to change his name at such a late date), and while he's a venerable old chap he does have a few problems. These I can forgive, though, as I can fix many myself and it won't cost a semester's tuition to do so. In any case, we did know that the muffler had to be replaced, and so over spring break we attempted to do just that, but ... there were problems. Among other things, rust can be an extremely effective welding agent. There was a 12 hour marathon of cutters, welders, grinders, hammering, cursing, and standing under the car trying to hold the muffler up while gingerly reattaching the rusted support system (date of last tetanus shot was important). The end result is that perhaps it was the standing holding the muffler or perhaps I did it some other way, but my neck and arms have been in somewhat endless nonstop pain since then, and I really hoped that if I slept alot and took many painkillers of different types I'd find one that made the pain dull or made me be able to think properly but so far... that has not happened. I've given in and am having someone look at my neck/shoulders/arms tomorrow. In the mean time, my brain seems only capable of churning out the sort of disjointed rubbish you have displayed across your screen at the moment, which is not at all appropriate for homework, and honestly if I thought any harder about my inability to think I'd probably cry but it's the thinking that is the problem. So I'll be at home with painkillers.
Please let me know if you would like a different story.
Best regards,
your student
The summary is that I will be missing class today, and would also like to request more time for the homework assignment.
It should begin, I think, with my ex, who left – well, it was a good while ago now, but it's really not important when he left, or where he left to (the land of milk and honey, the land of sunshine and storms, san francisco, the valley, land of the kool-aide that must be drunk in order to turn a profit), but in fact, what he left behind. He left behind his car, an impractical car made even more impossible by the addition of a roll bar which removed the ability to, say, put anything in the back seat, or recline. Not that I recline when driving, but as a passenger reclining is perfectly acceptable and even desirable but still– not something a passenger of this car could ever do. And it, the car, hereafter referred to as Scum, broke. Often. I had my own car, of course, that also broke often, and the multitudes of breaking were more than one person should reasonably be expected to bear.
Also, and this part is somewhat inexplicable, but it seems that Scum had a sort of magnetic personality, or perhaps a kick-me sign. Men would drive into this car. I went from never having had a collision with another person, to three collisions, all in one year. First, there was the pastor, who decided to take his New Beetle right, at a red light, and around a bus that admittedly had pulled rather haphazardly into the bus stop– but still, if the pastor hadn't taken the right at a No Turn On Red red light this would not have been a problem– so, widely around the bus, and quickly, and really, not quite considering where he was going but happy he was Past That Bus, and oh- right into the side of my car.
Rather than moving his car out of the street, he instead wanted to stand and lecture me, as clearly Scum should not have been there, in front of his car, and he was a pastor, and really, if I didn't give him $20 for his cracked license plate frame right then I would be Going To Hell, yes I would, no he did not want to exchange insurance information, no, he would leave it up to my conscience for being in his way, and kids today. (He drove into my wheel, which bent the tie-rod into a very interesting shape- the car would only drive straightish if the wheel was cocked at a 45 degree angle, and then would shuffle in a manner reminiscent of charlie chaplin because the wheels were now pointing at each other rather than straight ahead. Turns, when attempted, would make the tires scream faintly somewhat like a baby might, if it had been locked in the trunk. Fortunately, if one is so inclined, it is possible to replace the tie rod in a driveway, but one must still obtain a new tie tod, and that cost $200.)
And then there was the businessman in the BMW, who thought that rush hour traffic in Bethesda was a fine time to stare at his radio, or his lap, or nosehairs, I wasn't really clear on what, but whatever it was it was more important than the red light. Or Scum, in front of him. I got out of the car, and looked at our cars, kissing– fortunately he'd run into the license plate– but still, there he was, in his car, refusing to look up as I banged on his window. Finally, he deigned to push the button, and still, not looking at me but rather somewhere in the vicinity of his A pillar, remarked that surely he hadn't hit me that hard. Since he refused to talk to me or give me his name and I was late to dinner I took down his vin and license plate as I'd already noted the shop he took his car to. Mechanics, I've found, are almost always very friendly to me, and it's amazing what information can be had just by asking nicely. After I got back into my car (we'd been blocking traffic on 355 all this time) he tried to speed away from me, perhaps in embarrassment or just annoyance, but this was rush hour and as it happened (not my fault) he was going to the same neighborhood I was. On the side streets, he was clearly desperate to lose me at this point, but every route he chose just brought me back behind him eventually. If I hadn't been late to dinner I might have followed him just to see what he would do.
But finally there was the guy in the gas station parking lot who decided that he wanted to back his large truck up, without looking, and ignoring my horn and his own beeep-beep-beepbeepbeepBEEEP of a dipshit-there-is-something-behind-you warning system, and drove straight into the side of Scum. The door was badly dented, and as I got out and looked at the door and then walked over to the truck, he looked at me and then peeled out of the gas station. This was stupid, as I both knew what truck he was driving and his license plate and we were in a gas station for pete's sake where there are cameras
everywhere. I felt somewhat bad for him later; his name was Snodgrass, and honestly if I'd been stuck with a name like Snodgrass I might well go around driving into things in anger, but stupidly he lied about it to the police despite the clear video of the entire event, and it took many many months for the police to track him down.
All of this for a car I didn't even willingly take. And then the engine light came on, not the cute one that says 'oh, you forgot to tighten the gas cap' but the one that says 'oh, you have to rebuild your engine and that costs as much as a semester of tuition'. That light. Except, these are in fact the *same* light, and one must take the car to a mechanic who will tell you which it is because it is not possible to have a car computer tell the *owner* what went wrong. So, really–and I think anyone who knew these things would be hard-pressed to disagree with me– Scum had to go. Fortunately, another ex was enchanted with the idea of taking on an accident-prone, broken, impractical car (I really hope I can avoid drawing the obvious parallel of having dated me), and somehow he convinced his fiancee (a lovely girl) that this was a brilliant idea. Thus I got rid of Scum and had money for another semester. I told my other ex, that I was ditching his car, but he seems to be not talking to me, at least not answering my email, perhaps because I am not holding on to this reminder of all we shared or perhaps because I call the car Scum, and perhaps he's always felt that the name is a reflection on him somehow. But I'm not the one who stuck a "Die yuppie scum" sticker on the back. Somehow the obvious irony was lost on him, even when he put the sticker on. So mostly Scum refers to the sticker, and only rarely to the person who placed it there. But I suppose even the rarely would sting.
However, selling Scum left me without a daily driver. I was done with complicated cars, I just wanted a nice inexpensive reliable car that I could use in winter to visit my family in cold and snow-prone places, I definitely didn't want another car with a silly engine computer that I couldn't even talk to. And I found one, and his name is Hans (he reached his majority named Hans, it seemed impolite to change his name at such a late date), and while he's a venerable old chap he does have a few problems. These I can forgive, though, as I can fix many myself and it won't cost a semester's tuition to do so. In any case, we did know that the muffler had to be replaced, and so over spring break we attempted to do just that, but ... there were problems. Among other things, rust can be an extremely effective welding agent. There was a 12 hour marathon of cutters, welders, grinders, hammering, cursing, and standing under the car trying to hold the muffler up while gingerly reattaching the rusted support system (date of last tetanus shot was important). The end result is that perhaps it was the standing holding the muffler or perhaps I did it some other way, but my neck and arms have been in somewhat endless nonstop pain since then, and I really hoped that if I slept alot and took many painkillers of different types I'd find one that made the pain dull or made me be able to think properly but so far... that has not happened. I've given in and am having someone look at my neck/shoulders/arms tomorrow. In the mean time, my brain seems only capable of churning out the sort of disjointed rubbish you have displayed across your screen at the moment, which is not at all appropriate for homework, and honestly if I thought any harder about my inability to think I'd probably cry but it's the thinking that is the problem. So I'll be at home with painkillers.
Please let me know if you would like a different story.
Best regards,
your student
