January 22
 
 
 

A cleavage shot will not distract me from how very much I hate my hair.
 
 
 
 
 

This weekend, as you might imagine, I did a lot of driving.  Here and there.  Highways and byways.  When the snow came on Saturday afternoon, I was at my grandparents, watching some indepth special on CNN about Somalia and being pummeled with a lot of Bill Clinton talk.  They oohed and ahhed just the right amount over Webster, and the moment, the very MOMENT the snow started to stick, they made me leave.  "The snow!! Your car!! It's dangerous!! GO GO!! Call us the moment you get home!"

It WAS snowing fairly hard, but certainly not enough to make me leave before fun visit time was over.  I  bid them a fond farewell, and started on my journey home.  Overall, the car is just about what you'd expect in the snow.  I slid around a bit, more than I would in the truck, much less than the Volvo.  I laughed, one of those mean laughs (after all, I've not been mean as a spider lately..)  watching a pickup truck turn out of a side street going way too fast for the weather, do a 360, straighten out, and CONTINUE to slide around like a moron, slamming on his breaks and making it worse.  There was a lot of that.  I made it home with no real problems, I cursed the hateful, horrible snow, (fuck you, snow!) and called Angelo & Eleanor upon arrival.

Several hours later, I needed to go back out to the tattoo parlor, to have Turdmonster touched up, because either I've rubbed away some of the color as it was healing (it took a long, long time to stop scabbing.  Wow, I'm talking about scabbing.  That's not right, sorry about that)  I was willing to forgo this adventure, but Nick volunteered to drive, and off we went.  We coasted down the hill of Skiff Street and stopped at the light.  I look out my window (gah, this is a long, pointless story, like all of my stories.  To nip it in the bud, I'll cut in on myself to tell you that about 3 blocks from Skiff and State is the VW dealer.  That will clarify things immensely.  Unfortunately, it will not make the story more interesting or entertaining.  Sorry about that, too!) and say to Nick "Look! My truck!"  Nick's like "Oh, come on, how can you tell?!"  I am insistant.  I know my truck.  Perhaps I do not love it as I used to, but still, I know it.  I ask if we can drive past on the way back.

Okay, so we get to the tattoo place.   I strip off my 14 pieces of outerwear, greeting Jeremy, the Tattoo Guy (Tattoo Artist?  Tattoo Man?  Tattooista?) who drops to his knees to take a closer look.  He asks me a few questions, and tells me that unless I want it to hurt really bad, he's not going to touch it for at least two months.  I, not wanting it to hurt really bad, leave.  We bundle back up and get back on the road.

My friends, is it wrong for me to confess to you that not only did we drive past the VW dealer to look at my truck (it WAS my truck, by the way.  I know my truck!), but that I made Nick pull in, so that I could get out and look?  Would it be weird to tell you that I got out of the car, and brushed off some of the snow from the hood and windshield so that I could see how much the selling price was ("WAS! 19,900!! NOW! 16,970!!!"  WAS it? When?)  So that a passerby from the road would see the truck (they shined the shit out of it, it looked good!)  and be impressed enough to want to buy it, right then, during a snow storm (to be fair, it wasn't much of a snow storm.  Certainly not the 10 inches the local weather men were swearing we'd get)?

Is it weird that I'm stalking my ex-truck?  Wait.  Don't answer that.  I already know.
 
 

Now this is what you call a shitty photograph.  You try and do a better job taking a photo of your own ankle, using a handheld, unsteady  webcam.  It's not nearly this blurry and blobby in reality.  And, in two months?  Less blurry and blobby than THIS, even!  Baby steps, people.  Babysteps.

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