I hate the Ann Arbor Art Fair, Part 2: a vase made of dinosaur fossils

The Art Fair, as fun to browse as it is, isn't as fun if you're buying the art.

'Wow, sir, this is a nice bowl.'
'That's no bowl! It's a vase made out of dinosaur fossils!'
'Sorry, my mistake. Well, the price tag says it's 8 dollars. I'll take it?'
'Where does it say it's 8 dollars?'
'Right there, on this tag.'
'That's an infinity sign.'
'I...am going to get a funnel cake now.'

Another thing: If Art is supposedly a classy thing, why is the Art Fair catered by every Fried Meat and Funnel Cakery in the state?

(Friday.)

Today I was supposed to sell the barely-functioning Crown Victoria to Ron, a man who owns a local garage. This involved the following steps:

1. I drove to Murray's to get a new bottle of power steering fluid. The Crown Vic leaks power steering fluid like a cranky, incontinent old man leaks urine. So I guess this means I was buying urine for the old man sitting in the street outside my house.
2. I went home and filled the Crown Vic with power steering fluid. The funnel I used dripped fluid on the front of the car, though. I didn't know if Ron would offer me less money if the car had some red stains on the front of it (I don't understand car people), so I figured this had to be fixed.
   
3. I wiped fluid off the front of the car, put away the funnel, and put the leftover power steering fluid in the trunk for future use.
4. I started the car and, to my surprise, realized the steering wheel would not turn. Turns out, Step 3 gave the power steering fluid enough time to leak out of my car.
5. I filled the car with old man urine again.
6. I jumped in the car and drove to Ron's Garage like it was some bizarre mission in a video game. "Drive your rusty noisebox to the garage while it's able to turn. The mission is failed when the fluid is gone and you've crashed into something. You may or may not be injured."
7. The guy at Ron's Garage told me that Ron had gone home. Yesterday he told me he'd be there until 5. I got there a little after 4.
8. I left the car at Ron's and walked home.
9. I wrote out the steps in my blog.
10. I included writing the list in the list itself because I'm so goddamn clever.

Getting rid of that dead car is exhausting. Maybe I would have been better off filling it with homeless people and driving it into a lake.

I don't even know why I typed that. It's just mean, and putting the homeless people in the car doesn't add anything to the car disposal process. Except maybe laughter.

I just mentally pictured homeless people being locked in my car and pushed into a lake. Then I pictured them growing gills and living happily at the bottom of the lake like the packaging for Sea Monkeys.

I wish that would really happen so I could justify dumping my vagrant-filled car into a body of water.

Driving my car's corpse home

Right now I'm walking to the repair shop to pick up my dead '92 Crown Victoria.

She was a good car when she wasn't being a piece of shit. She got me where I needed to, provided I didn't mind smelling mold the whole way there while looking through a cracked windshield.

Now I'm off to pick her up, climb inside her dead body, and drive her home in what turned out to be a more complicated metaphor than I'd anticipated.

(Dead car.)

I'm not sure what to do with a dead car. Right now my options are to give my car to some charity organization that feeds broken cars to needy children OR sell it to the repair shop owner's brother so he can put it in a destruction derby. Seriously.

I hope that after I die, nobody reanimates my corpse and makes it fight other corpses in an arena. But then again, you can't always get what you want. If zombie combat is in my lifeless body's future, so be it.

So that's what the parentheses mean...

I'm tired to the point where I can feel my heart rattling around inside my ribcage, like a muffler being dragged behind a rusty '92 Crown Victoria.

It's time for food and a nap, or this may be my last away message EVER.

(I'm implying death. And no, this isn't what I'm doing. This is an explanation.)

(This is what I'm doing. And it's grabbing dinner.)

So that's what the parentheses mean. Didn't mean to spoil my enigmatic formatting tendencies for all of you.

P.S. This away message is based on the fact that my '92 Crown Victoria's muffler is nearing its death, as indicated by the fact that my car is making what sounds like a death rattle, only "screaming-er."

Meet my crappy car

I hate having to introduce my car to new people. 'Yeah, that's my car. It's kinda balding all over. And the tape deck doesn't work. And the front windows don't roll up or down. And one time it rained and my windows were stuck down and the carpet got all wet so now the car kinda smells like mold. And the math teacher I had in 7th grade owned that while he was dating my mom while I was in 11th grade, so they may have fooled around in the back seat. So, hop in, Person Who's Riding In My Car For the First Time. It'll be great.'

I tell bits of info as needed, though. 'Sorry, no drive through. Busted windows' or 'sorry about the smell. yeah, moldy carpet.' Then I tell them the math teacher stuff so the car has more character, because maybe imagining an older man screwing in the back seat will take their mind off the balding paint job and all the dents.

(eating Livonia for dinner. all of it.)

I drive my 7th grade math teacher's car.

Right now I'm in my junky-ass '92 Crown Vic and driving to pick up the gf while I try to forget what may have happened in this car while my 7th grade math teacher both owned it and was dating my mom.

Yeah, you find one other person with a similar situation. And then you send them to me so I can murder them. There can be only one.

(Vroom vroom, assuming the car starts.)

This is a true story. I had him in 7th grade, she had him in 11th grade.