Wednesday, January 02, 2013

Pollution pinks

Although some of my favorite pictures of the ones from our house, especially when Abby's getting ready. Like this one, here she is with that scraggly blonde wig that somehow all the tricks live for, plus a strand of the fakest fake pearls I mean so fake they just look like a white plastic and a black chiffon dress with a poofy white part at the bottom like prom gone wrong. And then, at the end of the night she's in nothing but her boxers and the wig, giving it like Metallica. Or, in that cute black tunic dress with silver sequins at the bottom and top, working the black bob, shouting it out in sunglasses and a K-hole. Oh — here's one of me, my hair pink and green, matching and contrasting green rollers arranged behind the pink headband, a tight little red blouse with short rainbow polyester plaid skirt, purple tights and pink thigh highs, holding a broken umbrella that somehow matches the skirt exactly. Or, okay, not exactly, but close enough to look startling.

Oh, but wait — here's Abby in a pink dress, lying in the pile of wedding dresses. And here we are at the beach on Abby's birthday, yes that is the sunset and I look pretty tough with the big magenta butterfly clip pointing my hair to the sky, working my pipe clamp bracelets and the high-water red pants, standing against the pollution pinks and yellows and browns of the sunset while Abby’s getting some ocean realness. It's funny – I wear those bracelets all the time, but I don't have any other pictures of them.

But anyway, I finally make it to the car repair place and they tell me it's a broken axle and something with the muffler and the alignment, and it'll be $2700 to fix.

$2700 — are you kidding?

Okay, we can do it for $2500.

But I barely even have rent this month, I mean I don't have rent yet so they tell me they’ll buy the car from me for $300. Cash. I'm sure the whole thing is just a scam, but it’s probably for the better because at this point I hardly drive because I'm worried the car’s going to split apart in the middle and I’ll end up flying off the highway. So long, MIT Café.


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