Cars Are Not My Friends

When I was pregnant with Gabe, I ran our 2000 Honda Civic into the drive-thru wall of the local Burger King. Damage to car, one busted up drivers side mirror. Damage to me, none physically, but a whole lotta pride was sacrificed. Two years ago we owned what we now know was a lemon. Our 2004 Passat caused me immeasurable stress, money, and time lost from engine trouble to radiator (I think that's the right term) issues. A few months ago, well, I ran out of gas...on the side of H2 probably five miles from my house, and a minute after the Costco gas station exit. Quit your snickering. Today, was another CARtastrophe. I don't know who to blame for this one. All I have are the facts. I have been pumping gas for eighteen years. I have never had a mishap before. Today, I followed the standard pumping gas procedures. Today gas poured out of the tank of my car and splashed the concrete at my feet and doused the side of my car! The worst part was not the highly flammable liquid waiting for the spark from some nearby cigarette to ignite an inferno ball of fire. No, the worst part was how I had to pay for all that freakin wasted gas! Next week I may be walking to work. I don't ever want to pump gas again. Not without supervision.

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