If you're ever in Sparkle

And your car breaks down, do not -- I repeat -- DO NOT TAKE YOUR CAR TO BARNETT'S GARAGE. EVER.

The shitbox, aka my FORMER car (did I tell you guys I got my brother's old car?) that broke 3 days after the wedding has been in the shop for TWO FUCKING MONTHS. Not that I care since I have this new car, it was getting ridiculous. So Joe called them today and asked what was going on. They said they decided not to honor the warranty after all and they'd been waiting for me to call back cause they lost my number and were too lazy to call my dad whose number they admitted having. I spent a good 10-20 minutes chewing their asses out on the phone. And why didn't I call them for two months? Cause they always fucking drag their feet on my repairs and tell me not to call them when I ask them what the hell they're doing with my car.

FUCK THEM. They have a nasty fight on their hands.

All's well that ends

Just plain ending will suffice.


Despite rumors to the contrary, I am not being taken off bar. That was just someone being a bitch. When the bartender in question goes on maternity leave, her shifts will be split between myself and another girl now training for bar because we have so many shitty servers they can't take me off the floor. Amazingly Mr. I'm not pretty enough came up with the idea. Will wonders never cease.

I talked to my landlady and because the 5th falls on a Sunday so long as there's a check in the dropbox when she walks in Monday morning that will be acceptable. I think I can swing rent now, but I'm still heading over to my parents' house in a minute just in case we need to tap the First National Bank of Mom and Dad. Work's been pretty dead.