2008 can lick my dirt star

2008 isn’t even a month old yet and it’s already sucking harder than a crack whore trying to earn her next fix. How has it sucked? Let me count the ways:

First and worst, both Padre and my brother had major surgery. Although they’re both doing great, thankfully, the stress was pretty damn bad.

Secondly, it has now been two weeks since I’ve seen G. He’s where he needs to be, of course, but I want him home with me.

Third, I started off the new year with a nasty head cold that took weeks to go away. If I wasn’t wiping rivers of snot from my chapped nose, I was hacking up globs of phlegm that were the exact color and consistency, but unfortunately not the flavor, of butterscotch pudding.

And finally, we have this new bit of asscrackery.

I came home from work last night to find a piece of paper taped to my door. Was it a billet-doux from a secret admirer? No. Was it an advertising flyer? No. Was it a notice from my landlady saying that the hot water would be turned off for a week, so get ready to kick it Little House on the Prairie style?

No, any of those would have been preferable.

Instead, it was a note from the guy who parks in the assigned spot to the left of mine. He claims that it was recently “brought to [his] attention” that he has thirty to forty scratches and several dings on his passenger side, and he’s claiming they’re from ME. He adds that this situation “must be resolved, either privately or through insurance”.

Recently, I’ve been having dreams that are so vivid I wake up and think they actually happened. Hoping against hope, I pinched my arm.

It hurt.

MotherFUCKER!

First of all, let me explain the parking situation. The area where I park is covered and has three spaces reserved for people in my particular building. Douchenozzle is on the left, I’m in the middle, and Art Model is on the right. Douchenozzle has a wall to his left, so he tends to park waaaaay over to the right of his spot; in fact, his tires are usually on the yellow line or right over it, encroaching into my space. When he’s parked in such a fashion, I try to get over as far as I can without trespassing on Art Model’s space, because otherwise I would need the jaws of life to get out of my fucking car. Because he can’t park worth a good goddamn, I am ALWAYS extremely careful when getting out of my car. On the rare occasion when I’ve had to touch his car with my door in order to get out, I always do so very gently. Unless his car is made out of fucking PLAY-DOH or something, there’s absolutely no way I have ever left a mark on his car, much less “thirty to forty” scratches and/or dings.

After going in the bathroom and stress puking, I went downstairs to look at his car, which was not there. I returned to my apartment, fumed for a bit, and wrote G an e-mail asking for his advice. Then I changed out of my work clothes and grabbed my purse, because I needed to go to Target.

Now there was a letter (same content) under my windshield wiper! His car, however, was still nowhere to be seen.

I ripped the letter into little shreds, threw them in the dumpster, and went off on my errands. When I came back, I went online and read G’s reply, which called the guy a few colorful names and suggested I write him a note saying that I hadn’t done any damage, too bad, so sad (to be phrased differently in the actual letter, of course). I wrote a brief response back, thanked him, and went to bed, without eating dinner, at the unheard-of (for me) time of 11PM.

This morning, I took the note over to K’s cube to get her take on it, both as a friend and as a highly trained claims professional. She said basically the same thing as G did, with the addition that I shouldn’t call in a claim to my insurance unless Douchenozzle insists. I sure as hell am not going to settle it “privately”; that’s against the terms of my policy (as she pointed out), and besides, I DIDN’T FUCKING DO ANYTHING.

I’m so fucking freaked out. There was nothing threatening in the letter, but I don’t much like the fact that this guy knows where I live.

This is where it sucks being a woman living alone.