So, I talked to Beth over at State Farm, who had also talked to the Butcher and she told me how upset he was on the phone and how he told her that she should in no uncertain terms call me until he had a chance to talk to me because he was, "going to take care of this himself, so that my sister wouldn’t have to worry."
I don’t know why, but that breaks my heart.
Sarcastro asked me this question yesterday–"Isn’t it disillusioning to see that the people who you figure are living the dream turn out to be more fucked up than you?"–and I think he meant it rhetorically, which is good, because I didn’t have an answer for him, I was so taken aback by it.
Y’all, I am kind of a dumb fuck. I really do kind of think that you all have things together so much better than I do and, I’ll be honest, sometimes I write things here just as kind of giant explanations as to why you have to share the streets with someone who does not have her shit together in the way that she should, by now, have her shit together.
But I think the truth is yesterday, that we are all kind of fucked up in ways that would surprise each other if we knew them for true, and in spite of that, you still have some folks who try, in their own fucked up ways, to take care of you and you, in return, make your own half-assed efforts to return the kindness.
Anyway, so I talked to Beth, who sent me to Kevin, who set me up an appointment at a place near here to get my car fixed and it’s going to cost me $250 bucks and I’m going to ask them to give me an estimate on the door, just so the Butcher has something to aim for as he saves up to get it fixed.
I told Kevin I didn’t think I’d need a rental car, but I was clearly momentarily insane. Of course I need a rental car. How am I going to get to the feminist indoctrination camp performance without a car?
Er, because, of course, someone must be there to set those girls straight about the joys of the patriarchy.