Bad Carma Chameleon
Bad Carma Chameleon
What. The. Fuck.
Second time in two years that I’ve run over something that’s blown out my tire. This time, so badly that the wheel started smoking. After swivveling at length within my lane and edging myself over, I was barely able to safely navigate myself over to the shoulder of 880 in the midst of high morning traffic. The tire itself is shredded and looked as if a rabid monkey with obsidian sharp pincer teeth had chewed itself out from it’s spinning torture chamber.
So shaken up am I that I work from home the rest of the afternoon.
A few hours later, I get a call from the roomate who tells me that his battery or alternator or charger or *something* has decided to kaput itself. Have I jumper cables? Yes. Can I leave the house just yet? No. A conference call has me trapped. I send another roommate to go to the rescue and while pushing & shoving are better tasks for the manlier than I, a tow truck is in the near future.
Dear Gawd. Was it something I said?
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