1. You have a benign cyst cut out 'o your scalp (ouchie and ewwww to the sound I won't describe, except to say it's like a grape being squished--but really, I'll leave it to your imagination, 'cause I'm a lady like that. [squish])
2. Your car dies on the way home from the scalp cutting. Like totally. effing. dies.
3. Like, seriously--it's dead.
4. But wait--it gets worse when you realize it's dead because you're FRICKING OUT OF EVER-LOVING GAS.
5. Yep--the tank is dry as a bone.
6. (I blame this on my husband, since technically, it was his car I was driving, and even though I've been driving it for three weeks, it's really HIS DUTY to make sure it's full of gas. I mean, I have two kids, no sleep, crying during approximately 90% of any vehicular situation--and a benign cyst up until six hours ago. CAN I REALLY BE EXPECTED TO CHECK THE GAS GAUGE??? (Don't answer that.)
7. You walk your arse to the gas station and back and then go to the WRONG side of the car to pour some gas in (with a whole line of cars piled up behind you, watching), because you've never managed to fill your husband's car with gas in six years of owning it, and DON'T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT SIDE THE TANK IS ON.
8. You pour gasoline on your hand (and expect to go up in flames because you'll be struck by lightning at ANY MOMENT due to all the curse words that are FLYING out of your mouth) and use your child's spare burp cloth to wipe it off. (Don't worry--you throw it away after.)
9. You manage to get the gosh darn effing plastic nozzle of the portable gas container STUCK IN YOUR TANK OPENING AND HAVE TO WALK BACK TO THE GAS STATION TO FIND AN EMPLOYEE WHO PITIES YOU ENOUGH TO WALK BACK TO YOUR CAR AGAIN TO GET IT OUT.
10. You get back home to your two non-napping daughters who are manically hyper/hysterical/breaking down emotionally for the rest of the evening.
Oh well. Shite happens.
All part of this beautiful merry-go-round called life!
Right, Chica???
Riiiiiiiight.
P.S. My head hurts.
P.P.S. Squish.
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