Like any spoiled farm girl, I pulled into the local gas station - and seriously considered "putting it on the tab." As a creature of habit, I just enjoy the small town gas stations - the people are generally nicer.
The guy walks out, asking me if that was my car making all that noise? Me? MY car? How dare you, my car is fine. I think the (insert something about cars here) is slipping, it's just a 15 minute fix. Can you fix it, let's say Wednesday? I'm actually going on a road trip to Phoenix and well, I haven't packed yet. You're not driving this car.
The thing is, I actually pulled my car into the shop last night, and my brother checked everything out - so it's fine. Blank Stare. *huff* I'll call an order the (insert what ever that thing is) and they'll deliver it - it will just take an hour. Blank stare.
I sit here from my dad's office - placed convientently across the stress from where my car is getting her ... something... fixed. Pully? Maybe that's it. On a serious note, how amazing are small towns. I love this place.
Also - could someone come pack for me? I'm supposed to leave for a roadtrip soon. In a last minute scramble, I'll probably just take everything orange and throw into a bag.
Also - if you're not cheering for the Cowboys come Monday, we can no longer be friends. Keep that in mind.