Calm down, Spencer.
It's not what you think. It can't be what you think. Because that would mean God does, in fact, hate you and that you are, in fact, a walking disaster.
I resist the urge to punch my steering wheel. No, alright, that's a lie. I punch the ever-loving shit out of my steering wheel and, in turn, feel an extremely large amount of pain shoot up my right hand clear into my shoulder.
"Fucking wonderful!" I exclaim, to no one in particular yet also the entire freaking world.
It's a long story how I got to be where I am at the current moment in time. But, to give you the gist of it, my husband, Aiden, took my car this morning and left me, Spencer, with his shitbag car, and, you guessed it! The piece of garbage is failing to get me from point A to point B. Actually, that's not fair. Really, the car got me to point B (coffee shop) yet is drastically failing to get me back to point A (my house. Not our house. MY HOUSE). I exit the car, mocha latte in hand, and proceed to kick the front tire. Hard. Bone breaking hard. Just when I'm about to let God know just what I think of him, I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye and glance to see that my actions have been observed.
Ordinarily, this would piss me off even more. Maybe to the point of homicide; however, it's just the cashier of the coffee shop, Ashley, kindly coming outside in the snow to give me my debit card I so thoughtlessly left without. She's wearing one of those smiles that leads me to believe she was laughing at me moments before. I disregard this and rather forcefully jerk my card from her hand with a grunted "Thanks." She stifles another laugh and I stifle my urge to commit mass murder.
"Do you.. ah.. need a ride somewhere?"
Okay. Major internal debate.
Pride versus huge opposition to walking home in snow.
Damn. Whatever shall I do?
I look at her, my blue eyes meeting her brown and I shrug.
"Well. . ."
"I'll get my keys."