G-F-in Dammit.

So we took the Mazda into the dealer today to have some shit looked at, from the...incident in the fog three weeks ago (which you should really read about because it's awesome). So we have to shell out a grand (in addition to the initial $300) to fix the fucking thing. That or we can get rid of that car. It's never been as fun as the Focus was, despite its being more sporty and masculine and fast and all that shit. It's too expensive for graduate students, and I sometimes get annoyed when assholes pull up next to us and try to race us like stupid rednecks. (To date, no one has beaten us, since, uh, I won't race anything that I don't think we can beat and that's wimpy and I know and don't really give a shit.) Also, the tire cost for the mileage we put on a car is $800-$1000 annually, since the only tires that fit are expensive and don't last long and etc. and shit. We'll need a new set of tires before the end of summer. So it's crossed our minds that maybe we should ditch this zippy little money pit before things get worse. And we've found a nice new 2005 Focus we like. But I shouldn't jinx it, cuz we didn't get the other one we wanted before we bought the Mazda on a whim.(Don't listen to me, as I'm more than a little drunk and am really typing this more carefully than a person should have to try to do...or something. Excuse me.) Shit, it sounds like I've made buying cars some kind of hobby, which is extra weird to say about someone like me with no fucking money to speak of and only a fancy education and the debt it includes and the pens and pencils all over this room. I mean, someone like me. I hate car shopping. Seriously. Oh, these are pictures of my growing winter beard, per Lorianne's suggestion, because she is awesome, and that's an adjective that I reserve for entities that deserve it. Ask my wife and friends and family how much I love that word. They'll tell you. For real. We want to get rid of the fucking Mazda, But don't cry for the end. I hope it works out, but no matter what, Tonight vodka is my friend. Or something like that. Don't listen to me. I say again. No wonder I don't really write poetry anymore. Although, you have to admit, my spelling and grammar and typing and such are not bad for the amount of the vodka stuff in me tonight. "I will, I will, rock you (clap clap)," I say. Sing along.