I think I’m mellowing with age. Situations that would drive me over the edge not that long ago now barely make a blip on the radar.
One of the good things about living in a small fictional town is that the gas station on main street doesn’t feel the need to climb up to the sign out by the street and change their gas prices. This means that I can fill up my sleek sports sedan for around 25 to 30 cents cheaper than anywhere else. This is made cheaper if you also buy a car wash. Me? Wash my car? Well, okay. Although the last three times I’ve filled up the car wash was broken.
Yesterday I went to the gym and then stopped by a friend’s house to watch an Ina Garten TV marathon. On the way back to the ranch I stopped for petrol and car wash. Or should I say, petrol and to sit in my car madly punching a code into a sneering and complacent kiosk. This afforded me the opportunity to meet Brian. Well, his name tag said “Brain” but, I’m sure he meant Brian. The brain then set about explaining that car washes are difficult to operate and maybe I wasn’t up to the task.
So here we find our protagonist. A gas station attendant with a tattoo on his forearm reading “Born Fwee” [SP] is letting me know my place in the world. Suddenly I was overwhelmed that I was underwhelmed. The ego was happily in tune, the testosteronieness was chillaxin. I left the store knowing that a possible conflict instead produced a Diet Coke and a MoonPie.
Turns out that yes, I had been entering the code wrong.
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One of the good things about living in a small fictional town is that the gas station on main street doesn’t feel the need to climb up to the sign out by the street and change their gas prices. This means that I can fill up my sleek sports sedan for around 25 to 30 cents cheaper than anywhere else. This is made cheaper if you also buy a car wash. Me? Wash my car? Well, okay. Although the last three times I’ve filled up the car wash was broken.
Yesterday I went to the gym and then stopped by a friend’s house to watch an Ina Garten TV marathon. On the way back to the ranch I stopped for petrol and car wash. Or should I say, petrol and to sit in my car madly punching a code into a sneering and complacent kiosk. This afforded me the opportunity to meet Brian. Well, his name tag said “Brain” but, I’m sure he meant Brian. The brain then set about explaining that car washes are difficult to operate and maybe I wasn’t up to the task.
So here we find our protagonist. A gas station attendant with a tattoo on his forearm reading “Born Fwee” [SP] is letting me know my place in the world. Suddenly I was overwhelmed that I was underwhelmed. The ego was happily in tune, the testosteronieness was chillaxin. I left the store knowing that a possible conflict instead produced a Diet Coke and a MoonPie.
Turns out that yes, I had been entering the code wrong.
Boy, you sure do fill out a T-shirt nicely!
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