512 TEX

That is the license plate number of the piece of shit excuse for a car that was parked in my spot when I got home after a really crappy day at work. I just want to remember it, as well as the apartment number the people driving the POS came out of – 2100, remind me when I ask.
Damn, if I hadn’t just spent all that money on lasik I’d move into an apartment with an attached garage. Or buy a house – but that’s not happening (see birthday blog). At least I was able to see the license plate number really clearly. And the whole indcident ended up involving a relatively entertaining 30-minute conversation with my extremely talkative 26-year-old neighbor (his birthday was yesterday) who lives upstairs with his 50-year-old boyfriend (his birthday was the 4th), and who just quit the 7-Eleven because there was mold in the cooler that held the Rock Stars so he refused to stock it anymore and made his manager fire him so he could get unemployment, but it doesn’t matter that much because the boyfriend made $184K last year doing telemarketing, and he wants to have stop-smoking laser surgery as well as lasik and stomach stapling even though he’s not THAT overweight, but his boyfriend is – he, in fact, gained 50 pounds after quitting smoking and had a heart attack in January after eating KFC for dinner every night for a week. Yes, I learned all that just now.
Fortunately for me, my post-surgery schedule says that as of Day 3, “moderate alcohol consumption may be resumed.” I’m so there.


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