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After a fortnight of really shitty stuff happening (and that is probably the most aesthetically displeasing expletive, btw…) which I may relate at a later date when I don’t want to hurt things…today had me rushing around to leave work early so I could drive all the way across the city to my house (I have a pretty long commute) after I realised I didn’t have one of my various government-issued forms of ID that I NEEDED in order to get myself on this apartment lease so that my fiancé does not have to live with the wretchedness he’s been putting up with the past year and…a half? (I forget.) And also not be homeless…

So I drive all the way home. Right as rush hour is starting. And I sit in a lot of traffic. And slowly boil, as my own car is incapacitated atm (one of the many aesthetically displeasing things that happened) and I am driving my dad’s car which has no air conditioning. And black leather interior. And I am wearing black wool. And sitting in the sun.

Maddening.

And after I get home and frantically search for proof that I am a real person (my favourite bit, that), I realize I found a new hiding place for my important documents, and I forgot…which is why my mom couldn’t find it.

Card in hand, I drive ALL the way back across the city–in jeans this time, which is almost as bad, but not quite–and turn in my papers so that they can’t decide to retract their approval of us (since we didn’t have it in writing, I figured it was better to not take that chance…).

And then? Still rush hour (which, btw, is SEVERAL hours long, since this whole process took my from 340-615), and still no AC. And then…then this other thing happened.

I had the windows open. Not that I had much of a choice, since the temperature gauge inside the car was reading 95*F as I sat in the sun and cooked and my clothes got progressively more waterlogged…

But…yeah…so this other car was next to me. With its windows rolled down. And my teeth were vibrating while they serenaded me with some gangsta rap about making cash-moneys, getting bitches, and what the gangsta’s short-term goals were for each of these things.

So I did what seemed best in a situation where I am being forced to cook to death and listen to some expletive-laden gangsta hedonism.
Cranked up the volume in my dad’s car and…ah…introduced my neighbors to the Red Army Choir and the virtues of communism. In Russian.

I almost thought my plan wasn’t working, and I was being ridiculous and embarrassing myself, but then…we weren’t moving, so meh? I looked over to check on the effect I was having, and was the proud recipient of the evil eye (and also what looked like some aesthetically appalling words…although those may have been part of the song?), and the gangsta windows mercifully rolled up. My teeth were still rattling from the bass, but…one must pause to appreciate the small things.

…this anecdote is painfully ridiculous. And I realize that. But still.

Victory, comrades.

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