Dreams, how you tease me
You know that dream where you win the lottery and then you wake up all hella sad. Yeah. Screw those dreams in the most painful place possible.
My dream last night was very similar, and I won't bore
johnnylexicon with all the details, but let's just say it involved Vegas, a pinky-swear to share winnings with a friend, and 4.9 million dollars. Even in my dream, though, I refused to really get my hopes up until the damn money was in my hands. So, waking up was not too painful.
Yes. I am a realist.
Although. I am going through this phase I go through, every so often, in which I stare longingly at every house I pass. I want one so very badly. Not even just one to own; I'd be just as satisfied with a house to rent. But I want the space. The backyard. The front yard. The garage. I've wanted it with my whole heart since I was old enough to notice my lack thereof.
And it's a spoiled American thing to think that that lack matters AT ALL. I'm aware. But it's still there.
And I'm farther from it now than I've ever been. My Passat hates me. You know that thing where you know there is something wrong with you, but you hesitate to go to the doctors because you know the news will be bad? Yeah. That's how things have been going with my Passat. I finally went to try to smog it (with full knowledge that it wouldn't pass) and they officially told me that both my catalytic converters are fucked. I knew that. I was hoping for a miracle.
So, by the way, when I called around to find out the cost of fixing it, a mechanic told me only a dealer could do it, and the dealer told me that the combined cost of the parts (ONLY!) is over $2000. And I more than don't have that. So...will the Passat be a very large paper weight pretty soon? I'm freaking a bit. Or a lot.
Speaking of doctors, speaking of being scared to have them tell you something you don't want to hear, Friday is National Get Tested for HIV Day (though I'm not sure it's actually called that). And I plan to. And I'm scared shitless, like always. And, damnit, all of you should too.
More on this topic to come.
My dream last night was very similar, and I won't bore
johnnylexicon with all the details, but let's just say it involved Vegas, a pinky-swear to share winnings with a friend, and 4.9 million dollars. Even in my dream, though, I refused to really get my hopes up until the damn money was in my hands. So, waking up was not too painful.
Yes. I am a realist.
Although. I am going through this phase I go through, every so often, in which I stare longingly at every house I pass. I want one so very badly. Not even just one to own; I'd be just as satisfied with a house to rent. But I want the space. The backyard. The front yard. The garage. I've wanted it with my whole heart since I was old enough to notice my lack thereof.
And it's a spoiled American thing to think that that lack matters AT ALL. I'm aware. But it's still there.
And I'm farther from it now than I've ever been. My Passat hates me. You know that thing where you know there is something wrong with you, but you hesitate to go to the doctors because you know the news will be bad? Yeah. That's how things have been going with my Passat. I finally went to try to smog it (with full knowledge that it wouldn't pass) and they officially told me that both my catalytic converters are fucked. I knew that. I was hoping for a miracle.
So, by the way, when I called around to find out the cost of fixing it, a mechanic told me only a dealer could do it, and the dealer told me that the combined cost of the parts (ONLY!) is over $2000. And I more than don't have that. So...will the Passat be a very large paper weight pretty soon? I'm freaking a bit. Or a lot.
Speaking of doctors, speaking of being scared to have them tell you something you don't want to hear, Friday is National Get Tested for HIV Day (though I'm not sure it's actually called that). And I plan to. And I'm scared shitless, like always. And, damnit, all of you should too.
More on this topic to come.