okay...

So, I meant to post something about this last night, and sorta forgot.

My parents, being the cool people they are, went and got my car on Sunday. Then on Monday, it was inspected and such. On Tuesday, they registered it.

So, about 9ish, my folks come into work. "We're parking your car in the back."

Whahuh?

Yes. My car. I have it. I own it. I drove it home from work last night and paralell parked it.

It's dark blue, though the paint is scratching off in places. It's a Buick. Not sure which model. It's about ten years old. There's a tape player and radio, but no CD. sigh.

It's a big fucking boat.

I can deal with that. I can. Really.

It's an automatic, it's not a Saturn. *sniffle*

The spedometer only goes up to 85. I laughed at that, remembering certain portions of the trip to Toronto that first year.

I'd've broken the spedometer.

but. It's my car. Mineminemineminemine. I don't have to drive my sister to work. I don't have to drive anybody ANYwhere.

Except myself.

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!

Mycar. :)

On a sad note.

Just got a call from the sister of a friend of my parents'. She passed away last Tuesday, from congestive heart failure--two hours before the WTC happenings.

I... I think I'm too numbed by everything to care.

She was the person who got me intrigued by Blake's 7, and the Prisoner.

And she's gone.

Hell, she used to be active in local B7 fandom.

I hadn't seen her in years, though.

She, and my mom, had crazy and fun adventures at KRLA, where they convinced a DJ there that there was a horse in Sherman Oaks. And they met the BeeGees.

I...