I should be in Columbia right now. I should be hanging out and partying with Andy and Kieran tonight after an afternoon toss of the baseball on the horseshoe. I should be.
But wait, I’m not. About four weeks ago, my truck took me the entire 600 miles up to Virginia to see my family. Last night, it only allowed me to retrace 570 of them. About a half an hour outside of town, the engine gave a soft whine and started to gradually slow down. Clay thought I was messing around when I let flow of a steady, loud stream of expletives. I managed to pull the truck over to the side of the road, get AAA to town me to a mechanics, and my dad picked us up and finished the journey for us. Surprisingly enough, the mechanics were able to start working on my baby around 9 this morning. Unsurprisingly enough, they have absolutely no idea what is wrong with it. No belts are broken, the engine’s getting gas just fine, and not a damn thing appears to be wrong. But I can assure you, when you turn the key, all you get is the classic “Uhuhuhuhuhuh”. If they can’t fix it tomorrow, I’m stuck here until Monday night at the earliest and Andy leaves Tuesday.
Sometimes I seriously hate Fate.
There’s just something about me and trying to drive home from Virginia. Last year I was forced to do so on New Years night and was able to witness a tractor trailer exploding in front of me, sit still from 2AM until 5:30AM, and then watch my battery quickly died. I don’t know what the hell I did to anger the Gods this year, but it must have been a doozie.
But you know what the funny / not-so much funny, but more ironic thing is? My truck died within 3 miles of the exact same spot last year. Next time, I’m taking another route home.