Today started as any other.
I lied in bed for hours hating myself.
I should preface this by stating that I do not think mental illness is a prerequisite for artistic talent.
A lot of people seem to have the notion that in order to be a great writer/painter/musician/etc., you have to be tormented. How cruel of an expectation.
To be blunt, I generally try to keep to myself, because I know how annoying it is when someone tries to compete for gold in the Sadness Olympics.
I don't like being unhappy, but I usually am in the morning. Anyway, after about two hours of hating myself in bed, I threw on my Adventure Time pajamas and flew down the stairs. I usually can't fly, but when I'm tired and I need my coffee, anything is possible.
So I sprouted wings to reach my Keurig in peak time, and this is something that's necessary because I'm actually a bubbly and friendly person- once I've had my coffee. But before I get the chance to aggravate my nerves and wake my brain up, I'm a disaster. Sometimes some inconsequential inconvenience prevents me from immediately making coffee upon waking up (being late for work, realizing that the chickens need to have their water changed, laying in bed hating myself for an extra twenty minutes) and I'll remain in this disastrous state until I get some.
This is a standoff that could last all day. If I don't get some coffee in my colon until noon, then I won't be capable of coherent speech until noon.
So I was quick to get caffeine in my system to ensure that the next few hours went well (by well I meant I had the ability to talk) and drove down The Hill™ to get my brake pads changed.
I live in a lovely forest home in the California mountain range, and we refer to our mountain as "The Hill."
Some other jargon we throw around is the word "flat-lander," which is mostly used as an insult. I can't blame the mountain folk for using this term though, it's very regular for people who live in the city below to drive up our curvy mountain highway and immediately plummet into the nearest object in sight.
I understand that driving on flat, well-maintained roads is easier than driving up our curvy highway, but you'd think by the way these knuckleheads drive that they'd never piloted a vehicle in their lives. Christmas time always proves this the most; thousands (I'm not joking) of flat-landers drive up the mountain and cause a ridiculous number of wrecks.
It's chaos- cars piled in the snow, people trying to drive on ice without chains, couples panicking and calling last minute to cancel their dinner reservations.
I can't blame them for invading our territory though, the mountains are pretty awesome.
Back to the story: for the last couple of weeks my brake pads had been squeaking horribly. This meant it was time to change them, and I had $500 in my bank account from working Christmas Eve, Christmas day and New Years. Since I only work part-time and make minimum wage, I usually only make around $200-300 each paycheck, so even though it was a living hell, I was thrilled to have $500. Not to mention Amazon money from Christmas.
Yet, a few days ago, the brakes stopped squeaking- and started grinding. And they didn't work.
If I pressed the brake with any meaningful amount of force, the brakes would scream like a screwdriver caught in a garbage disposal, and the car would slide forward for a disturbing distance before easing to a screeching 5-mile-per-hour stop.
I usually like listening to music with my window down, so hearing Jurassic Park noises assault my ears every time I nudged the brakes was a little unnerving.
I managed to make it down the steep-ass mountain without them; I drove slow and used low gears to slow me down to take the pressure off the brakes.
But when I made it to Firestone Auto and paid for an inspection (I also wanted to know if my transmission was fine) they simply told me, "You need to see this."
Whenever a word as urgent as "need" is involved, run.
So he took me to the shop, where my car was hung up on the rack with all its goodies displayed, and showed me the litany of horrifying afflictions plaguing my car.
For one, not one, but both of the shocks were corroded into oblivion, and all of the brake pads were worn down to the steel plate (sounded about right, I had the sneaking suspicion that brakes weren't supposed to sound like something from the Paleozoic Era) and the front two brake rotors were warped while the back two were cracked and rusted.
Also I was low on transmission fluid and brake fluid. And one of my tires had metal threads sticking out of it from wall separation. And one of the wheel bearings was fucked up.
Basically, the $45 brake pad replacement was actually a $2,600 series of repairs. There was also something wrong with the ABS, but I didn't quite hear that part because I mentally checked out the second I heard the price tag.
So I made it home, read a few chapters of Don Quixote, watched an episode of Bob Ross on Netflix, and binge-watched like eight episodes of Shirobako.
Then, at midnight, wondering if I should get some writing done for my novel (if you have to ask yourself then answer is yes), I spontaneously decided to create a blog instead.
I managed to do that, now I guess I should get some writing done huh?
So, for all you writers, normies and groupies out there, may all your cups of tea be your cup of tea,
and I'll see you in the next post.