You Know, Sometimes I Get Tired of This....
So.....somebody hit the back of my car while I was out of town. I'd left it parked in the parking lot where my mom works (Because, from where it was parked, I didn't think that anyone could hit the damn thing. I was wrong.) while I went to Safford to take care of school stuff with Dustin. We were planning on getting back around 8 or 9, but we didn't make it until about 11 because a giant storm of DEATH trapped us in Safford until about 10.
So we finally get back into town and I know I can't leave my van in the lot overnight because, well, that's just a dumb idea, even though all we want to do is go home and go to sleep. So I make Dustin take me to pick up my car, and as I go to open the driver's side door, I see a piece of paper stuck in the crease. I take it out and see that it's a bank reciept and I'm like "WTF?" because who shoves their used paper in someone else's car door? I turn to show it to Dustin, and I see the other side of the reciept, which says:
Sorry!
Some dude's name and phone no.
Yes-I'm insured.
I'm thinking, sorry for what? And then the work insured starts to slowly creep into my sleep-addled brain, and I run to the back of the car, and I wanted to hit someone.
My pretty, nice clean white van has a big ugly dent running from the bumper to the back window, and it's all ruined and the paint is cracked just a little, and I'm pissed as hell. So I call my mom to tell her that I'm back and what happened, and she makes me call the police to come and take a repot, blah blah blah. Around this time, Dustin (who hasn't slept in over 24 hours because he worked midnight to eight the night before and then came down and hung out with me all day) pulls a blanket and a pillow out of the magical tophat that is his car (I swear, you could live in that damn thing for weeks. He has a freaking snare drum in there.) and lays down in the back of my car as we wait for the police to come.
Because I live in the backwards town that I do, there is ONE police officer on duty at 11, and it takes him an hour to haul his porky ass over there to tell me that there's nothing he can do, can't take a report, private property, blah blah blah. The guilty party did what he was supposed to.
Ugh.
So Dustin took some pictures with his phone, and we finally headed home to sleep. Thank God.
But every time I see the back of my car, I want to cry.
P.S.--My mom called the guy, and we found out they're in the process of moving to Texas, they live in a hotel as of right now, and he hit me with a freaking wheelchair on the back of his car. We're probably going to have to replace the whole backhatch since it doesn't open anymore, and I think his insurance will pay for it. I damn well hope so.