So remember that one time when I wrote a post about how it’s great to be an independant woman and I don’t need anybody and blablabla?
Yeah, forget that.
Today, I have officially named my car. His name is Fucker, because he continuously fucks me. (But not in a good way, although that would be kinda wild to see.)
I realize that a salvaged-titled, massively-dented car driven daily by moi may have some problems. But the fact that Fucker refuses to start on the weeks when I don’t get paid is a little bit more than disheartening.
Here I was this morning, all ready to go have a meeting with my pretty boss, when I turn the key in my car and get nothing but clickclickclickclick.
Awww, fuck me.
I’ve been told I just need a jump, and I agree. A jump off a bridge into the rocky depths below would feel lovely right about now.
Because NOW I have to wait for my Rockstar to come home, and I’m dreading the inevitable, “You need to get rid of this piece of shit.” that is sure to accompany his arrival. For whatever reason, my Rockstar is completely unsympathetic when it comes to my Fucker.
It truly would be beneficial for me to buy a new car, yes. Here’s the question- do you want to help pay for it?
Given the fact that my credit score is 596, (don’t laugh, that’s twenty points higher than it was a year ago) and the fact that I work as a Pizza Slut, I am truly fucked until further notice.
These are the times when I wish I lived in the old west, and had a horse. Of course, my horse would probably be an old nag that would collapse crossing the street….