I am a demigod of driving

Please note, the above statement grants me the title of DEMIGOD, I mean no heresy by this statement, simply I am eight and a half levels of driving awesomeness, therefore I have reached the demigod stage. Yes.

Well, figured I may as well update since I've decided to help out the team and listen to the radio online until five, I know, it does sound as stupid written out as it does in my head. Oh well.

Things are going better today, most of my things are now under control so instead of boring you with the whinny details of my life, I'll enlighten you with the secrets to my awesomeness, but more importantly, the key to why I'm so very single.

Cars... if it were one of those word associations, most people would attribute it with speed, power, and more often then not, men. Unfortunately due to genetic factors, this term excludes my particular condition. Also due to genetic factors, I've somehow been bestowed the driving skills of my predecessors, with enough knowledge to keep me afloat amidst the fumes of automotive trivia.

I still get bugged at work... "oh, you looked so cute under the hood of that one ton, I mean it looked like you knew what you were doing." Thanks, and good luck to our administration staff when trying to start that thing again. As well I'm continuously tormented by a 'carfamiliarityitis'. For example, if you are walking somewhere and you see someone you know, you may stop and talk with them. Maybe just a simple hello or casual glance in their direction, maybe you stop and have an in depth conversation out of curiosity of their present situation. Now imagine you are popular and know a lot of people, so no matter where you go, there's someone you recognize, and they all demand attention. That's the way I am, well, with cars. Dealing with a good chunk of all the cars on the roads, it's not strange for me to recognize a handful of cars while driving home, or while looking out a window in a restaurant, or even while walking though a parking lot. Like all those people you have to acknowledge, I too have to check in and see how Stiney Jr is faring or Hildalgo, maybe even Lucille or Skylar. All in all it's annoying, but more importantly, unavoidable as my subconscious doesn't let me ignore them as they pass. Argh.

Alright, so I name cars, not a big deal. This doesn't denote that I'm the greatest driver ever, far from it, in fact. There are terrible drivers that name things, most of these people can be found in the Ponoka hospital. Me, getting sent on every run during the day because the people are here, NOW, to pick up their car, or pulling a perfect back-in job off of Calgary trail, well, that tells you something.

Recently I rented Skylar. She was beautiful, a thirsty piggy, but a real thing of beauty. Our hallowed 'Co-manager' couldn't quite understand the appeal, I told him that I would explain it to him when he was older, but the truth was that very few people could understand my love for the Infiniti G35x. It's a grandpa's sedan, really. A dumpy looking four door that comprises the base of the Infiniti lineup, it really has little going for it... unless you have that one little letter 'x' behind the name. For all of the hard-core drivers out there, this one letter means so much more. It thrusts the lil' guy into the ranks of automotive legends.

It's a sickness, really. I guess that there is something wrong with everyone, something that they obsess over, something that they love, are passionate about, I simply fall out of the stereotypical lines of what I should be into. I think that I've come to terms with it, though. The main thing with cars... they don't judge based on gender. A girl can slam down on a gas pedal just as well as any guy, and it doesn't take testosterone to turn a steering wheel.

That's about it. I'm off, into the Silver Awesomness, which is far greater than any G35x.

Bleh

Super-short post today, or at least as short as I can manage. Gah. I'm sick, tired, cold, and devoid of any human contact until I get to work at which point I'll spread my plague around the world. I hate being sick, not so much because of the coughing, sneezing, the lack of appetite, the constant headaches and nausea, but for the fact that I'm really too busy to be sick. Yes, I know, this is my body's way of telling me to slow down, take it easy, relax a bit, but I can't I have far too much and I figure myself to be more important than I actually am, therefore the world will stop if I call in sick, or dead. Although if for some bizarre reason you are worried about me, I promise I will do nothing at Budget tomorrow except for take a nice long nap in a LeSabre with the front heated seats turned on.

I've managed to survive my first quartile week of midterms with minimal side-effects. I managed to score two hexagonal meals a day, which I'm fairly certain equates to three square meals, and even slept, sometimes... but it wasn't until I had a dream about terrorism that I realized that on a subconscious level, things were not all right. Yes, terrorism. It was great. In fact it was ingenious, so much so I can't publish it on my blog because Tom Clancy will try to steal my idea and turn it into a best selling novel. Yes, it's that good. But I've never been one to be influenced by the media, really watch news or read papers, and least of all ever fell prey to all of the war propaganda being flung at us by Bush like so many crap throwing monkeys. It still happened though, which worries me. Now I'm terrified that they have some kind of dream control device that instead of keeping people in a waking fear of what will happen next, even in sleep it's inescapable. I know that this isn't the case, but at the same time, I want to get a patent for the whole thing.

Oh, and today I'm frump-girl. Not as cool as wonderwoman, but I may be wearing my underwear on the outside. After passing out sometime around sixish last night I woke up, turned on my alarm, and then woke up at six today, still fully dressed and looking pretty much as fantastic as I did when I fell asleep. Woot.

Well, I'm off to struggle my way onto the bus and shake my head in disbelief as to what I considered 'lunch material' this morning. I should live. I hope.