From the Shitty Week Files: After the four wisdom teeth were removed, the anaesthesia began to work its magic. "I am a model patient," I told the dental assistant. "Trouvez la voiture," I instructed my mother. Having teeth plucked out of your mouth is a surprisingly less painful experience than one would expect. It's the recovery that's a bitch: eating baby food, swishing salt water, feeling hungry, dazedly stumbling around the house...
Today was supposed to be a good day. I was heading back to work after sleeping for almost three days straight, and I was going to get a lot of work done on this Big Huge Scary Project that's due next week. I felt so good, in fact, that I woke up early. "Hoody hoo, I'm going to be on time for once!" I hummed. Making it down four flights of stairs took a while, mostly because I wasn't used to walking. But I'm a trooper, you know, and I made it. I stepped out of the building and took in the beautiful blue sky, the green trees, and the glaringly empty spot where my scooter should have been.
O Vespy, my Vespy! Where had she gone? I knew right away that some scoundrel had laid his eyes on my lovely little scooter and had nabbed her. I trudged back upstairs, grabbed the appropriate paperwork, and shuffled to the nearby police headquarters. I should also mention that I was still slightly loopy from the painkillers, and so I practically slumped onto the precinct floor. In a daze I helped the police officers fill out their report, my thoughts drifting toward snacks that weren't baby food. If these sentences make little sense, it is only because the time itself made little sense.
After I'd been at work for a couple of hours, I received a phone call from Chicago's finest. They'd found Vespy. I can't divulge many details, because I'll have my day in court and all, but here is what I do know: my scooter is totaled. The thief is young enough to order a Happy Meal without receiving an arched eyebrow at the golden arches. And even after insurance, I probably won't have enough money to buy a replacement scooter. So, to sum up: kid steals my scooter, I pay insurance deductible, I have no scooter, kid likely gets off with slap on hand. You can just call my life El Stinko Grande from now on.
Today was supposed to be a good day. I was heading back to work after sleeping for almost three days straight, and I was going to get a lot of work done on this Big Huge Scary Project that's due next week. I felt so good, in fact, that I woke up early. "Hoody hoo, I'm going to be on time for once!" I hummed. Making it down four flights of stairs took a while, mostly because I wasn't used to walking. But I'm a trooper, you know, and I made it. I stepped out of the building and took in the beautiful blue sky, the green trees, and the glaringly empty spot where my scooter should have been.
O Vespy, my Vespy! Where had she gone? I knew right away that some scoundrel had laid his eyes on my lovely little scooter and had nabbed her. I trudged back upstairs, grabbed the appropriate paperwork, and shuffled to the nearby police headquarters. I should also mention that I was still slightly loopy from the painkillers, and so I practically slumped onto the precinct floor. In a daze I helped the police officers fill out their report, my thoughts drifting toward snacks that weren't baby food. If these sentences make little sense, it is only because the time itself made little sense.
After I'd been at work for a couple of hours, I received a phone call from Chicago's finest. They'd found Vespy. I can't divulge many details, because I'll have my day in court and all, but here is what I do know: my scooter is totaled. The thief is young enough to order a Happy Meal without receiving an arched eyebrow at the golden arches. And even after insurance, I probably won't have enough money to buy a replacement scooter. So, to sum up: kid steals my scooter, I pay insurance deductible, I have no scooter, kid likely gets off with slap on hand. You can just call my life El Stinko Grande from now on.
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