The brakes on my car went out yesterday-- they stopped being responsive, and there was this scary sort of grinding sound from the back of my car. Maybe they were doing something, but they sure weren't making my car "stop" in the traditional sense. It was more of a gradual slowing-- I would push the pedal to the floor and wait for the car to stop by sheer force of whim. And so I drove down to the repair shop and left the car there, vaguely hoping they could make it all better.

I was able to borrow Jane's car at the last minute to get to my first tutoring session right on time. (And it went well. Yesterday, the universe felt far more sanguine about me.) I would have hated to miss my very first session with a student because of car trouble.

This morning, the mechanic called. I found out that I had completely fucked up all sorts of things: cylinders and rotors and so on. It's going to cost me about $900 to fix it. (And don't tell me I'm getting ripped off. I know I'm getting ripped off, and I am too stupid about cars to do anything about it, and that's what's really killing me. I didn't know the right thing to do-- except ask for rebuilt parts if possible-- and I don't know if I can trust these people, and I absolutely hate this feeling.)

You might remember that I used to have a nice little savings account, which would have covered that amount. But I bought a bed, and then I fucked up on paying my cell phone bill, and then I got some unexpected bills like car insurance, and now I have no more savings account. No money. Certainly no $900.

I honestly don't know what I can do, except cash in some of my stock. Which is sad because I don't have very much stock in the first place. And it's been my nest egg since I was born, when my grandfather first put $100 in an account for me. I always figured that once this car died for real, I'd use the money to buy a new car.

(No, I can't afford a new car right now. In a year or two, maybe I can have a car that isn't a seven-hundred-year-old beige horror. But for right now, I have to suck it up.)

Okay so anyway, I woke up to the feeling of complete stupidity (why didn't I get my brakes checked recently?) and financial despair. A friend of mine happened to call right when I got off the phone with the mechanic and he said comforting things like, "At least you weren't hurt when your brakes went out. At least you didn't hurt someone else. It could have been worse."

Well, okay, yes. It could have been worse and this made me feel better. But it's still pretty bad. Although it may seem like a small sum, it is a lot of money for me. It means I probably can't afford to go on vacation. It means I will have to try and work even more hours than I am working now. It means I am po'.

(This is what I get for pronouncing my weekend fabulous. I should have never said a word. Maybe the universe would not have felt the need to balance out my life by peeing, in such spectacular fashion, on my parade.)

Anyway, after all of this, I realized I had to get to work somehow, and what better way than on my bike? The silver lining being, of course, that haven't gotten to go riding in a few days. Here it was: my chance.

I was down the hill from my house before I realized that my back tire was flat. And my front tire was looking a little flaccid as well. And I was going to be late for work. Well fuck. Me.

I made it to the gas station and put some more air in the tire, but now I realize that my tire must have some kind of leak, which I am sure will mean spending money that I really really don't have on new tires. Or something, I'm pretty stupid about bike repair as well.

I bumped off to work on my flaccid tires. My work is only 2.5 miles away from my house, and if you look at the bald statistics, you'd think I should have no problem with 2.5 miles. However, this particular 2.5 miles is slowly, steadily, inexorably, ALL uphill. And I was late, so I couldn't take my leisurely time (read: stop and rest every few blocks and maybe go have a soda or something on the way). I had to haul ass uphill. Obviously, I hurt myself in the process. The universe made sure of that.

Then I got to work, strained thigh muscle and all, fifteen minutes late, sweaty and disgusting and tired, determined to buck up and do a good job for the next eight long hours...

...only to find that my manager had stayed home sick, we'd been short staffed all day, the store looked terrible, me and the New Girl were going to be working alone all day, and I wasn't going to get to sit down for at least four hours.

Of course.

I told my tale of woe to the supervisor who was just leaving (I whined to her, I am whining to you-- I am so whiny) and she said, "Well, at least you're not sick!" And then I whined, "But I am sick!"

It's true, too. I've been having a hard time breathing; it feels like I have fluid in my lungs. I definitely have that "coming down with something" feeling. (But for the most part, yeah, at least I still have my health.)

Well anyway, I worked as hard as I could for eight hours (which was at first not very hard at all, then increasingly harder, and then after I finally sat down for a break, I went back to working not very hard and then slightly harder at the end there) and we got out fifteen minutes late and then I had to bike home.

I didn't mind the ride for the most part, especially since it was 90% downhill. I don't usually ride at night, but I stayed on the major streets and it was kind of interesting. Until I got within a few blocks of my house, which is on the top of a dark hill. So it was all spooky (no lights) and a little scary (possible shady characters) and fucking uphill again.

For the record, the main reason I don't ride my bike at night (home from work) is that hill. My neighborhood is not normally scary at all, but having to walk my bike up a hill with no street lights doesn't make me feel comfy. Last night I took a cab home from BART so I wouldn't have to walk it. I trust my intuition on this one.

Okay, I know I sound like a big baby, and I am one. Clearly I made it home okay, so I should quit whining. And it's only money, and I'll figure out some way to scrape it together, and life for the most part is good, and there are a million things or more I should be dancing for.

Except for the coup de grace of the whole sad affair, which is that now I think I might have hemorrhoids. Everything else goes wrong, and now the most ridiculous humiliation imaginable: hemorrhoids.

Sometimes, all you can do is sit back and admire the poetry of the thing.

"How come when I was depressed, none of this needed to get done? The only thing on the 'to do' list was, 'Sit around and watch movies, or play on the computer, or read, or stare at the birds or do absolutely nothing. Who cares? Not I, your to do list. Nope, don't care. Do whatever the hell you want. I'm going back to bed.'"