I told you all that was meaningless. in Whey and Sonic Screwdrivers.

After the fact, I realized I didn’t actually get around to saying what I wanted to say. I don’t think getting off-track is necessarily a bad thing. The non-sequitor thoughts tend to be more revealing upon reflection than the actual points I’m trying to make, usually.

I said something about being day-to-day, then babbled about time and stuff. I also said that I’m clearly not dealing with stress. I seem to be a great one for compartmentalizing. It works in my favor at times. When I was working and schooling, both full-time, I had my School portion of the week and the Work portion of the week. When it was Schooltime, that was what I thought about. And when it was Worktime, that was what I thought about. It was two different headspaces and when I was in, I didn’t stress about the other.

Damn it, I babbled again.

It would be helpful to, somewhere on a daily basis, write down all the things that stress me or scare me. Doesn’t need to be public. Could just be a piece of paper or private entry. It’s like Voldemort. I get so scared of even thinking about certain stressors, that I just choose not to acknowledge them. And since I put off dealing with them, well. That lack of dealing tends to compound.

On the agenda today is getting four new tires and a new battery.

Did I mention I had my windshield replaced again? This time, it was all my fault. With the bitter cold recently, my windshield washer fluid froze, or ran out, I’m not quite sure which. (I’ve since filled it.) With all the salt on the roads that day, I couldn’t see shit. So, while waiting to pick up a friend (Lanabear), I tossed a shovel of snow on the windshield. It was immediately after that I saw a crack. Ugh. Me, all me! Self, don’t do that! The windshield must have been hot from the inside, and the temperature differential did a bad thing. Like how you’re not supposed to put boiling water on a windshield.

I had a check engine light I’ve been ignoring for the past 1000 miles. Whoops. It turned on at 70k, so I just assumed it was some sort of Standard Maintenance Schedule that the manufacturers use to try to scheme money out of you. I was having my windshield replaced anyway, so I told the dealer to just check the light. I know, I know, dealers rape you in the butthole. I’m feeling that right now, and my butthole is very tender. But I’m also freaking lazy, and since Clarissa was in there anyway, I figured might as well.

The name of my car is Clarissa Clutch. She’ll be 7 in late June, but she’ll always be my baby. Even if I’m a little too aggressive around snowbanks. I’M SORRY MISS CLARISSA I LOVE YOU.

It turns out the check engine light WAS something. Ew. Something to do with an “Oxygen Sensor”? I did a quick google later, and it IS a thing. I’m a computer guy, not a car guy, I don’t know what this shit means. Half the reason I’m okay letting the dealer rape me is because they will only ethically rape me. I’ve heard horror stories of auto shoppes saying they’ll do repairs, and then do the wrong repairs, or not any repairs at all. The dealer has a reputation. If they fuck up, you might not buy a goddamned car! So in exchange for raping me in my wallet, I get peace of mind. If they fuck up, they’ll own up to it and try to correct it.

When I had the van (‘88 Caravan, those things were fucking tanks), I remember we had a shoppe we’d go to. But it’s a little out of the way now, and the guy at the counter always seemed like a giant asshole. My dad seemed to like that shoppe, so I rolled with it. That is to say, I don’t quite have a auto shoppe at the moment.

I like saying shoppe, because it sounds fancier than “shop.” Shop. Shop. Shop. Ever stare at a word long enough that it looks funny? Shop. Shop. It doesn’t even look like a word now. Ahem. Shop sounds like a verb whereas shoppe HAS to be a noun. No one has ever written “I was shoppeing” unless it was a typo.

I lost my train of thought. Timmy fell down the well.

I have the funds somewhere, but this isn’t exactly money I enjoy spending. Hell, I’m at 71k, and still have my original brakes. A quick google reveals that this is the upper end of their lifetime. I haven’t had any issues, but I’d prefer NOT to have any issues. The place I go to for tires I figure also does brakes, so I can either just tell them to do the brakes, or ask them to rape my wallet to “check” them. You’re taking off the damned tires, how hard it is to look at the damned brake pads?

Like I said, I’m not a car guy. I just like driving stick. It’s fun. Makes me feel in control. (Which isn’t something I feel a lot in my life. Ew, meta.)

Did I mention the battery? I also have the original battery. The battery is on the short list of things I COULD do, but god damn it’s fucking cold outside. I watched my dad replace the battery on the van once, it really isn’t all that difficult. But I figure. For these guys, changing a battery takes less than five minutes. They have the tools and have done it often enough that it’s nothing. Me, well. I’d worry I got the right battery. I’d worry about not ELECTRICUTING MYSELF. I’d worry about putting the leads back on right. I’d worry about freezing my fucking hands off. My tire place is relatively reasonable when it comes to labor, so whatever it costs to pay someone to put in a goddamned battery, it’s kind of worth it.

I mean. The battery hasn’t died of its own accord. I had a boo-boo last summer when I was listening to music with the engine off and that drained the battery. But in terms of straight starting in the cold, she’s started every time. Nonetheless, it’s a seven-year-old battery with 71000 miles on it. I’m pushing my luck. The dealer showed me a read-out from where they do a thing where they drain the battery and try to find its maximum charging capacity. That, I understand. The read-out looked like the battery dial the Van used to have. (It was such an adjustment driving a car that didn’t have a battery gauge, but only a singular light.) The read-out made it abundantly clear that mister battery in Miss Clarissa was on its deathbed. I’m surviving the winter, yes. But it’s not the cold weather that’s going to kill it.

(I just realized I didn’t babble about the tires. Last time I had my oil changed, the guy said I probably needed new tires. Shit man, I usually end up changing tires when I get a flat and the tire’s shit to begin with. I checked my logs. I haven’t actually just gotten tires for the sake of it, in the entire life of the car. Well. Okay, I have an annotation that a rear tire needed to go, so I had both done. But shhhhhh. So. I’ve somehow survived all the icy weather recently. I did the penny test, and all of them were on the cusp of failing. Damn. Like, damn. And then the dealer was all, “You need four new tires, bro.” Uh. Why does that speech pattern sound like Jessica Emsley? YOU’RE A DISEASE. Anyway, it was over the phone, so I said, “THANKS FOR THE INFO!” except not because I am, in fact, a functioning member of society. MEMBER. ha ha, member. But yes, I figured it would cost less to do the tires elsewhere, as I’m painfully aware that dealers will rape you in the butthole. And, as I said, I have a very tender butthole.)

So. A windshield, an oxygen sensor, four tires, a battery, and maybe brakes. Only one is an actual mechanical repair. One is an oopsie, the rest are normal maintenance stuff.

Ah. Now I remember why I was afraid of talking. Because I babble. And then it becomes long and babbly. I was making a point to keep entries shorter and to the point. I suppose it’s because I’m a terrible reader.

Well. What did I do ten years ago? Try to bore my audience to death? It’s a thought, at least.

Funny. All I wanted to do was romanticize about dealing with my stressors on a daily basis, and talk about some kind of implementation which would lead to DEALING WITH STRESSORS. Instead, I babbled. But, as I said earlier, it’s the non-on-point things which end up being useful in any kind of reflection.

Last updated February 20, 2015