The Diatribe * net

It’s Sunday evening and that would usually entitle me to a couple of frosty pops as I try my damndest to stave off the fast-approaching Monday work day.  But this Sunday evening, I’m knocking back the cold ones with a bit more intensity and fervor.  I’ve been wronged in one of the most egregious ways a man can be wronged.  I was the victim of a hit and run “accident.”  I walked out this afternoon to find that, while my car was parked on the street outside my apartment, someone had crashed into it.  No note.  No witnesses.  No hope.  I’m just now starting to break out of my day-long near-catatonic state.  I feel utterly and miserably maligned. 

It’s not even the $500 insurance deductible and the fact that I’m going to eat the cost of repairs.  It’s the fact that my beloved car is crumpled and someone out there got away with it.  It’s an awful feeling.  Something similar has happened to me before, but that doesn’t help make this any easier to swallow.  Nothing makes this easier to swallow.  It’s as if I left my poor, defenseless car out on the vicious jungle of a street and it was sodomized.  My car was sodomized and there’s nothing I can do about it.  Just an awful feeling. 

That birthday money I just got from my parents?  Oh, that’ll make a slight dent in my body work bill.  No fun purchases for Cool Jesus.  So, I’m here as the evening relays the baton to the nighttime and I’m relying on some good music to sooth my pain.  Happy birthday to me.