Junk It

Last night I treated myself to a little wine to go with my macaroni and cheese.  I’m fancy like that.  Even minuscule amounts of alcohol blast a hole through the sieve between my brain and mouth that normally keeps me from saying things I shouldn’t (but really want to say).  I suppose that’s why they call it truth serum.

Manchild left West Virginia Sunday afternoon for the homeward bound around 12pm.  I was raging and plotting my revenge for weeks, although I can’t quite put my finger on any single event that caused me to lose my shit, so it was probably an accumulation of the little stuff that snowballed and caused a mental shitfest avalanche.  He sent me a message at 2pm to let me know he had just crossed over the Maryland state line, but he was stranded at a gas station because the truck died.

Whaaaat?  Please don’t think any less of me when I tell you I was laughing maniacally.  I’m sure you expected that though, right?  Karma exists!  I re-worded my return message about 20 times before sending, “If you decide to junk it, I’ll come get you.”

Nevermind the fact that I’m not supposed to drive.

“You really love the truck, don’t you.”

“I don’t have to love it.  That’s your job.”

I felt like I won some sort of contest.  Like the I-told-you-it-was-a-bad-idea award.  I wasn’t just saying it because I hate the truck.  I advised against it because it has a history of being less than reliable.

Really though, I didn’t win anything but satisfaction.  The truck needs a new battery and alternator if that is the actual problem.  The payment may only be $150 a month, but truck parts are way more expensive than most car parts.  I told him we can trade both the truck and Golf in on something he’d rather have and it’ll get us down to one payment and will reduce the insurance costs.

He got snippy with me and asked why I hate the truck so much, and since I had the fermented grape juice, I divulged my secret.  On the day of our first marriage counseling session, when we were thisclose to getting a divorce, he decided to try work a deal on the truck when we initially just went for a test drive, because anything more would’ve made us late to the appointment.  He had to have it right then, on that day, in spite of glares burning a hole in his skull.  We were late.  It made me angry that I, that we, didn’t matter as much to him as buying a 10 year old used truck.  So now you know why I want to light it on fire.

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