I have to get up at five thirty in the morning. What a gas… Early a.m. flights are so much fun, kiddies! S’alright, though. I need the trip to shake some of the cobwebs loose.

Earlier this week I took my truck in to get it checked out. I couldn’t put my finger on precisely what was wrong with it, but I could feel something was getting out of whack with the way she drove. Also, there was a squeak in the belts, so I figured it needed a new serpentine belt. As it turns out, the clutch was almost down to the metal.

No, this wasn’t due to the wonderful night of driving I had the other day. I could feel this problem developing for months. It was almost eight years worth of wear. (Damn, my truck is old.) It was also several hundred dollars worth of repair bill. Tack the new serpentine belt on, and the price tag of this little truck-doctor visit made me cringe. A person needs wheels, though, right?

All seems well, the new clutch is tight and responsive, and I don’t feel like I’m causing dogs to have brain hemorrhages whenever I stop at a light (from the squeaking). I’ve almost got everything in line to take my vacation, and there are a few hours to go. Maybe I’m getting better about procrastinating…

The only point of this update is to say that I’m out of here for a few weeks. I don’t have anything to go off on at length.

Let me make one query, though. Why, exactly, do high school girls come up and hit on me while I’m running a hot dog cart? There is absolutely NOTHING appealing about this situation whatsoever. I’m standing in front of a Best Buy, I smell like wieners, I’m wearing swim trunks and a t-shirt from a college that I turned down when they were recruiting me (and I went to Davidson instead… dumb dumb dumb dumb…) and I’m sweating like a madman. In my glasses and an old hat, unkempt and unshaven, I’m sure I’m just the picture of the mature older man every high school girl dreams of. What the hell? I just want to read my book or sell you something, not flirt with somebody who just got her license and her daddy’s old Beemer.

Why does ANYBODY feel the need to stand around the cart and talk to the hot dog guy? It’s freakin’ HOT out there. I don’t know you at all. I don’t really give a damn about how you used to go down to the same Sabrett’s cart and get a dog every other day when you were in New York/Connecticut/Pennsylvania/Anywhere. Walk over to the shade, eat your hot dog, and then go look at the CDs in Best Buy.

Damn, I love the service industry.

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