Was at a Buffalo Wild Wings last night. Wanted to go out after work because I knew My Fucking Father would get on me all, "Why don't you do something after dinner like work out?" Well, I'll go out, if only to see Nebraska-Omaha play RIT in the men's hockey tournament. (I'd prefer the men's basketball tournament games be played Sunday evening, but that hasn't ever happened in my lifetime, so maybe that's a pipe dream.) But to get my "exercise" in, I'll park at the Target and walk over.
Coming back I was obsessed with whether my car was going to work properly. Well, I still am obsessed. And I guess I'm not just worried about the stalling, but also the temperature gauge, in case it overheats. I was so obsessed with that gauge that that was the first thing I was looking at when I pulled out of my spot -- and almost into a car coming from the left. Hell, I didn't see him because there was a parked car on my left.
The bad thing about driving at slow speeds in a lot on a Sunday night? You can see the faces of the drivers of the cars you almost hit. The guy looked at my blankly, but I could tell he wanted to come after me. Well, fuck you, it's a Sunday, what are you doing here? So I let him through. And then, momentarily ceasing my obsession with the car, I went again ... only to fucking stop when another car, coming from the right, was also about to hit me. How the fuck are two people coming down the same fucking parking lane at a goddamn Target on a motherfuckin' Sunday night?
And then this guy's face, hoo-boy, that look of incredulity as he walked by me. You're looking at me like I don't know what I'm doing? Maybe you should stop because I had already stopped once. Maybe you're the one at fault, asshole.
If I can see their faces, they saw mine. Oh, great -- now I have to worry about seeing them around town again because they might want to start a fight. Don't threaten me, motherfuckers, I have a shitty car and a pre-diabetic pancreas.
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