Punctured

I had a dream about Jamie last night. I don't remember much about the dream: I know we were in a cafeteria in Livonia Mall, that I had apologized to him, and I know that at the point I woke up I was hugging him and crying, but in the dream I didn't remember he was dead. In fact, for several minutes after waking, I didn't remember that; only when I was wondering why I hadn't spoken to him for so long. And then I knew why I was crying in the dream.

In slightly less depressing news, I went out to my car last night and discovered that I had a flat tire. Now, I haven't said anything, but I have a new Honda Civic. Atomic blue -- it's very nice. And when I say new, I mean new: it doesn't even have that patina of filth in the cupholders, or mysterious dog hair that seems to grow on the seats, of all my cars. I have only made two payments on it -- and yet it had a flat. This is the story of my life.

Seriously, I have a long history with punctured tires, and those are only the ones I have blogged about -- after a certain point, I sort of felt that they were becoming regular enough to quit mentioning, because seriously, who wants a bunch of blog posting about flat tires? (Not me, I hear you, my single reader, cry! Well too bad!) If I blogged about every flat tire, we could start a drinking game. Not only that, but three months before I got my new car, I had to take in my old car for a flat tire, and in addition to the tire that was definitively flat, they also found nails or screws in two of my other tires.

What is up with this flipping city?? Do they pave their roads in nails and screws? Because, honestly? It's kind of a pain in the ass. I thought I was through with this when I left the Detroit Metro Area, where they have potholes so large that they have been known to swallow cars whole, and which thus beat your rims to hell and back. They even have a contest for potholes -- it's crazy.