Purportedly Useful Advice

I work the night shift at a haunted hotel, which is difficult because I don’t believe in ghosts, and if you didn’t know, this only pissed ghosts off more. I’m frequently mistaken for a prostitute, people bring me booze in an attempt to get me to go to their room with them, and I even had a man try to rip out my belly-button ring, but these are all stories for another time…I mainly wanted to set the scene.

My precious, previously amazing, social life has been shot all to hell because I work from 11pm to 7am, and I’m lucky if I get one night off a week because no one is willing to work this shift. I have no idea why…except for like…the stuff I mentioned above. It’s really ok though.

Anywho, the girl that works the 7am shift on Saturday and Sunday is always at least five minutes late. She is never early, never on time, but always always always late. This drives me insane as I am a pretty prompt person and I call if I’m running even a brief moment behind or if I get stopped at more traffic lights than normal.

Saturday a marathon happened to be taking place on the street where the hotel is. I also happen to live off of this street about a mile up the road. The road I live on is inconveniently placed, and only one other road intercepts it besides the main street. This other road is a one-way that I can only go down if I pass my road and take the next right. Basically, it sucks, especially in the event of marathons (which are more frequent that you would expect in this area). I knew I needed to make it home before they blocked off the street, making access to my house impossible.

But, of course, the first shift girl was not in any way, shape, or form on time. I bounced promptly when she arrived, and hauled ass out of the parking lot. Employees are required to park around the back of the main building, where incidentally, a lot of construction is being done. There are piles of trash, wood, steel, and whatever else directly behind where we have been told to park.

Guess what I did?

Backed over what we speculate was a piece of sheet metal.

I blare the music in my car to the point that I can hear nothing, but I heard a very distinct sound that went something like…

Pfft! Boooo! Glunk!

In my head, I thought, “Oh balls! Something bad just happened, but I need to make it home before the marathon!”

I continue to drive needlessly fast around the hotel, and I hear another fascinating sound.

Flop! Flop! Flop!

I turn down the radio, keep driving, and listen. It continues, and I think, “Dammit. I bet I have a flat now, but I need to make it home before the marathon!”

I fly down the street toward my house, but lo and behold, I see people in front of me being stopped by a cop and sent back in the opposite direction. I quickly take the next right, which was a mere two streets down from my house, and I pray that I beat the marathon and that I can take the back roads through the neighborhoods to get around to the one-way street that will take me to the road I live on.

Fail! Impossible! I was too late!

And the closest place I can manage to park is by the library on campus across the street from the bar I frequent, my bar. I figure this will be sufficient because I’ll be going to said bar and I can just get my car when I leave. I’m pretty distraught at this point and I just want to go to bed before I gets brain-melting hot in my apartment that lacks air conditioning. I just leave my car and start the half-mile trek home, carrying my huge bag which contains my computer and most everything I own except my cat.

I go get lunch and go to get my car and I investigate, and yes, my back passenger-side tire is flat. Completely flat. Uselessly flat. I figure I can make it home if I drive real careful, and I do make it because God decided not to continue to smite me. It’s hot as balls though and I really don’t feel like putting on the spare or finding a place to get a new tire, so I go back to sleep.

Sleeping is how I problem solve.

I wake up and realize that I’m going to need a ride to work. I’m not terribly concerned with this. I get my roommate to give me a ride to my bar where I have a few beers and figure out the next step in my course of action. This all works out. I do some tire-changing research on the interwebs, I find a ride to work, and the rest of this story is pretty anti-climactic. The hotel is reimbursing me to have my tire changed also.

After sorting this out, I decide that it’s the perfect time to execute my herpes plan on Socially Awkward Dude.

I whip out my cold sore medicine and leave it sitting on the table, knowing he will come to talk to me in a matter of moments. He does. He’s predictable. He picks it up and says, “Cold sores?”

“Yes, I have herpes.” I respond in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Oh…oh…I…uh…wanted to do it before I got diseases.” He says, most awkwardly.

“Too late. I’ve definitely got herpes. Totally having a flare up right now too…hence the cold sores.” And I point, “You don’t want to get involved with this.”

“Well…I have hemorrhoids.” He tells me before getting up from my table and walking away quickly.

I didn’t nickname him Socially Awkward Dude for no reason.

But I appear to be the victor, and perhaps have managed to rid myself of one guy. Only three to go…

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