Fucking unreal...
Today is the first page in the book on how to drive a slightly unstable, but perfectly socially functional man into a murderous rampage.
Last night, someone came through my back yard. Now, this doesn't bother me that much; I've accidentally wandered throughb ack yards before having gotten lost in the rock quarry next to the county forest preserve. However, when you wander through someone's back yard, it's considered common etiquette not to open up the hood of one car there, slash an oil line, then loosen the lug nuts on another car right there.
>_<
My engine is blown. THrew a connecting rod at the edge of my subdivision. I checked the oil this morning, and it was fine. Right at the top of the dipstick. I don't check it every time I start the car, because it takes a paranoid freak like me to check it every morning.
Now, this pisses me off to no end, mostly because this $1,200 Pontiac 6.6L V8 isn't even my engine. It's the engine that my father and I spent two years building up. Yeah; just like in them hillbilly movies. Father-and-son project.
And you know what? It almost turned into exactly that kind of stereotyped scenario, too.
Because after I pushed my car into my driveway, I came inside to find that my 11-year-old sister was sitting on the floor with her cat, looking scared shitless.
"Mom went out to get dad, because the wheel came off of his car when he was driving."
I figured she had to have mis-heard something, because it simply didn't make any sense. My dad and I spend a ridiculous amount of time balancing our own wheels and tires, then an even more ridiculous length of time to make sure the lug-nuts are all torqued perfectly. Now, all five lug nuts on each of his rear wheels was taken almost off. Three of five had fallen off of the driver's side wheel and the passenger-side wheel was about to do the same.
I don't have a lot of money to begin with, and I have neither the time nor resources to deal with people who find it funny to fuck with other people's prized posessions.
The last time something like this happened, nobody did a fucking thing about it. Not after three police calls from myself and two neighbors whose cars were also vandalized. While my mustang may be long gone, my total lack of tolerance for vandalism certainly isn't.
Every time something like this happens, it just reminds me of how much I hate people.
Last night, someone came through my back yard. Now, this doesn't bother me that much; I've accidentally wandered throughb ack yards before having gotten lost in the rock quarry next to the county forest preserve. However, when you wander through someone's back yard, it's considered common etiquette not to open up the hood of one car there, slash an oil line, then loosen the lug nuts on another car right there.
>_<
My engine is blown. THrew a connecting rod at the edge of my subdivision. I checked the oil this morning, and it was fine. Right at the top of the dipstick. I don't check it every time I start the car, because it takes a paranoid freak like me to check it every morning.
Now, this pisses me off to no end, mostly because this $1,200 Pontiac 6.6L V8 isn't even my engine. It's the engine that my father and I spent two years building up. Yeah; just like in them hillbilly movies. Father-and-son project.
And you know what? It almost turned into exactly that kind of stereotyped scenario, too.
Because after I pushed my car into my driveway, I came inside to find that my 11-year-old sister was sitting on the floor with her cat, looking scared shitless.
"Mom went out to get dad, because the wheel came off of his car when he was driving."
I figured she had to have mis-heard something, because it simply didn't make any sense. My dad and I spend a ridiculous amount of time balancing our own wheels and tires, then an even more ridiculous length of time to make sure the lug-nuts are all torqued perfectly. Now, all five lug nuts on each of his rear wheels was taken almost off. Three of five had fallen off of the driver's side wheel and the passenger-side wheel was about to do the same.
I don't have a lot of money to begin with, and I have neither the time nor resources to deal with people who find it funny to fuck with other people's prized posessions.
The last time something like this happened, nobody did a fucking thing about it. Not after three police calls from myself and two neighbors whose cars were also vandalized. While my mustang may be long gone, my total lack of tolerance for vandalism certainly isn't.
Every time something like this happens, it just reminds me of how much I hate people.