You know how appliances and cars have the very annoying tendency to break down just when you come across money? Well, my belongings apparently learned how to fucking read, and they must have found this blog post to be a sort of challenge.
My cell phone (an unnecessarily swanky Palm Pre) started acting up some days ago: it’s a touch-screen phone, and suddenly it started acting as if a thousand fingers were playing on it all at once. It started making calls and writing emails by itself. I was like thisclose to calling the Ghostbusters, but then I realized that a) they don’t cover electronics, and b) they’re fictional characters. So I did the next best thing today: after work, I took the Child of Poltergeist to its parents – the Sprint Store.
Sorry, lady, but our policy doesn't cover Palm products.
Vero rode along with me to keep me company and also to have her own Palm Pixi looked after (hers was a bit torn up by the usual tear and wear… well, “the usual tear and wear” by Vero). It was pouring by the time I got home to pick her up, and by the time we got to the Ponce de León Ave (where the Sprint store is), the streets were absolutely flooded. I drove on, confident that my teeny Toyota Echo would make the trip with no incidents.
We dropped our phones with the tech team and headed across the avenue to have lunch. By the time we were back, the bottoms of my pant legs were soaked and my sneakers were all squishy and mooshy inside (yuck! like walking on seaweed, nasty nasty, I don’t wanna feel like I’m Under the fucking Sea every time I take a step! those tennis shoes have GOT to go!). We got inside after taking some flak from a random guy about us smoking outside. Fortunately, Vero’s phone was fixable. Mine wasn’t. It had fucking RUST inside, the goddamned thing DID go and sing Under the fucking Sea with my tennis shoes apparently. They tell me it’s replaceable with a deductible of $100 I don’t fucking have.
So we get into the car and suddenly we’re trapped in a huge-ass traffic jam. Everywhere we turn, there are cars stopped like it’s freakin’ Christmas in Plaza las Américas (the centermost circle of HELL). I’m guessing it was an hour before we finally got home, but on our way there we find out the reason for the excess of traffic: a man got killed in a gas station smack in the middel of our route home. So, I took an alternate route, and just when I start picking up speed I realize: my brake pads broke. They most likely got water-logged while they were still hot and -POP!- they broke.
$100 for the cell phone, God-knows-how-much for the brake pads, WTF!?
Car! Cell phone! Goddamn you and your fucking opportunism. Go fuck your mothers.
Not my actual car. My car is dirtier and has a better personality
I hate you and I love you, but fuck you, phone
PS: Upon later remembrance, I realized my phone DID undergo some liquid distress. One drunken night, I dropped it on the ground and didn’t notice until half an hour later. It was a rainy night. It DEFINITELY sang Under the Sea with that pesky little lobster.
Go fuck a goat, Sebastian!
I would probably be bathed in blood too.
