Good morning, bitches. The fog rolled in overnight and made everything look all “Silent Hill” outside. I’m sure it will burn off by lunchtime. Mom plans to go clean her friend’s house, so I’ll have most of the morning to myself. I plan to get dressed and try to play outside for a little while.
I had lunchtime plans yesterday, because the smoke shop was having a sale. Since I knew I was running low anyway, I wanted to pick up some cartridges before we take off to Tampa-ish for the weekend. I also figured I could look at some summer shoes and/or boots at the shops in the plaza across the street. Unfortunately, the universe threw me a curve ball, and the truck wouldn’t start. It was trying, but believe me, it was struggling. I had to wait for Brian to come home and hook it up to his battery charger. After about 20 minutes, the battery had almost enough power to start things: interior lights and stereo, but not quite enough juice to turn over the engine. Fuuuuck.
This is what happens when I leave the house on my own only a couple of times a month. I was pretty sure the battery was going. I drove it just before I took off for TinyTown and thought it sort of hesitated to start up.
At that point, Brian opted to speed things up a bit. He parked his truck on the front lawn, then pushed the Hot Mess Express down the driveway a bit. We hooked up the jumper cables and it started right up. I rolled down a window and let it run for 15 minutes in the driveway. I wanted to take it out for a drive, but it was just about dinnertime. Brian assured me it would start up again after dinner, and it did. My bigger fear was taking it out, going shopping, and returning to a dead truck in the parking lot. However, I assuaged my fears with the knowledge that Brian was at the house. If I went out after dinner, and in the event I needed another jump, he could come out to me. So, I took off to the smoke shop.
I made it to the top of the street when I realized it’s been over a year since I drove at night. Also, western Pensacola hates street lights.
On a positive note, I displayed some prime customer service skills in the smoke shop. I’d already picked up what I needed, but I love looking at the different pipes and bongs. A girl came in with the typical junk mail flyer offering a free joint just for stopping in and asked some questions about product and legalities.*
Sometimes – when it’s not fucking up my afternoons, mind you – the universe gives me a voice and makes me friendly, so I started answering her questions. I don’t know why. I even pushed her to sign up for their rewards program. She left happy, with her free joint. When I mentioned to the shop guys I’d filled out an application 2 weeks ago, the guy I assumed was in charge wrote my name on a post-it and told me he would put it on the managers desk. Then he walked it back there with the binder full of applications. I think that’s a good sign.
*this isn’t a proper medical or recreational marijuana dispensary, this is the slightly more (or less, depending on what you read) controversial delta-8.
