just a small town girl…

So the verdict is in. Big Sal needs a new something-or-another because she continues to overheat, which means I will have to spend anywhere between $400-$600 to get her back in shape, and until then I’ll continue driving the crappy van.


It’s just money, though. As they say, mo’ money, mo’ problems, right? I keep telling myself that, not only to gloss over my irritation about the car situation, but also to prevent myself from freaking the fuck out about the fact that all I want to do is move out of my mom’s house and have my own apartment and my own life where the height of excitement doesn’t always involve leaving town, but without a better paying job I can’t have that. And as much as I try to get all zen or whatever and convince myself that money will not control my life, when it really comes down to it, I’m severely limited in my own ability to pursue happiness without a steady income. So, to reiterate, I’m very thankful that I do have a steady income right now, even if my job is temporary and by no means ideal.

I’m also thankful that my dad is taking care of the car situation for me, and that he has a second car that I can use while mine is under the weather. Thankful, but still a little bitter. I’m just so unbelievably sick of listening to the radio. However, I have developed an even greater appreciation for CD101, the only decent radio station I’ve come across in Ohio, and I have to admit that I do enjoy listening to some of the morning radio shows too, on the Blitz and WNCI, mostly because the DJs are funny and they kind of have my dream job, which is to get paid to sit around and shoot the shit with your friends and play music in between. Who wouldn’t want that? I also love the morning shows because they talk about outrageously ridiculous stuff like The Human Centipede, a movie about a deranged doctor who sews three people together, ass to mouth, to create a human centipede with one connected digestive system.

What. the. fuck. These are the tidbits of info I’m getting on my lovely morning commute. On another show they were talking about broadcasting a show from a town in Connecticut called Mianus, which obviously just lends itself to an endless slew of witty wordplay. What are people like in Mianus? Will you call me when you get to Mianus? Don’t tell me you’re going to Mianus again. Ha, ha, ha.

The other plus side to the radio is that I get to hear random songs that I would never normally listen to, unless I was maybe at a bar or a party in Springfield. The other day, for example, I was in an absurdly grumpy mood all day at work, feeling sorry for myself and getting more and more anxious as the day went on. So I’m driving home and I have the radio on auto-scan because I can’t stand driving in silence but I can also never find a station that holds my attention for more than one song. It’s looping through the stations, commercial after commercial. Katy Perry. Some Spanish love song. A pastor talking about the Lord Jesus Christ. I’m covered in sweat because the air conditioning is broken, and the windows are down and my hair is flying in my eyes so that I can barely see the road, and I’m getting grumpier by the minute. I’m thinking about how I want to dye my hair blonde, because even the color of my fucking hair reminds me of him – “coffee colored,” as he described it when he wrote about me. Then I immediately hate myself for even contemplating dying my hair to hide from my heartbreak – it’s so overdramatic, so unlike me, so Sex & the City.

Then I hear that opening piano piece…it’s Journey. Don’t Stop Believin’. With no shame, I will openly admit that I love that song, if only because it reminds me of college, of dancing with my friends at the bar or on the window ledge at 167, and how excited I get when a song that I like comes on when I’m drunk. So I rock out to Journey in my dad’s turqoise mini-van, and I just feel better. Sometimes a good song on the radio is all it takes to remember that really, things aren’t so bad.


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