Curious, and also in the need of some spare cash, I decided to sign up to be a Postmates delivery person and see how it goes. Apparently weekends are good times for earning the most, so I jumped right in on a Friday night. The delivery app has a heat map of sorts that shows you where the most delivery requests are coming from. I live just outside the border of a more pink-ish zone and decided to start here.
— PANTS MODE: ENGAGE. And set my status to “online.”
— I get a delivery request for sushi from Harry & Sons in Virginia Highland. I’ve never heard of this place. And with that name, it sure doesn’t sound like a sushi restaurant but whatever.
— I zip over to Virginia Highland, find a parking spot on St. Charles, grab my bag, start walking down the street when I get another notification: “Order Canceled” by user. Cool. Thanks bro.
— I decide to stand around and wait and see if I’ll get another delivery request. I hear a car door shut in my proximity. I look up and it’s a cop exiting a ParkAtlanta vehicle. I’ve seen APD driving ParkAtlanta cars before, and it’s a sight I find somewhat comical, but I don’t fuck with ParkAtlanta. No one likes ParkAtlanta. So just in case I missed a “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PARKING ON THIS STREET IF YOU DON’T HAVE A RESIDENTIAL PERMIT, ASSFACE” sign, I scurry back to my car and just start driving.
–I get another notification shortly after dodging APD-ParkAtlanta. This person wants food from W.H. Stiles Fish Camp in Ponce City Market. Excellent choice! This restaurant is easily my favorite place in PCM. I mean I’ve only had their catch-of-the-day fish sandwich the two times I’ve been, but lemme tell you it is, mm mm, quality.
–On my way to PCM I suddenly remember something about PCM and its restaurants. “OKAY GOOGLE” I yell into my phone, “WHAT TIME DOES W.H. STYLES FISH CAMP CLOSE.”
–They closed at 9. Great. Just as I remembered. I find a spot along Glen Iris and recall there are parking signs. I read one. “RESIDENTIAL ZONE, DICKHEAD. PERMIT EXEMPT MON – FRI 5PM – 6AM.” Wait. Does that mean you don’t need a permit on those dates? Or you do? You’re exempt from needing a permit? Or if you don’t have a permit, you’re exempt from protection and ParkAtlanta is gonna find yo ass?
–I frantically check the three other cars on the same block that also parked here. One has a permit sticker. The other two don’t. First I fire off a text to the customer, let em know the restaurant is closed, would they like me to try something else? Meanwhile, I’m gonna assume that “parking exempt” on these times means I’m solid. I briskly walk towards PCM because hey, maybe I’m wrong, and Google is wrong, and Fish Camp is still open! Everybody would win!
–Fish Camp is closed. I fuckin’ knew it. Also, as I walked, I looked up what “parking exempt” meant. It’s definitely the other option. Which means, in the previous 5ish minutes I spent hauling ass over to PCM, ParkAtlanta totally could’ve found my car. I don’t fuck with ParkAtlanta.
–As I jog back to my car, I call the customer directly. They answer. I let em know Fish Camp is closed. They say they got my text. AWESOME, WELL I’M SO GLAD YOU ACKNOWLEDGED MY MESSAGE. I didn’t say that, instead it went something like, “ah, well great! Just letting you know. Have a good night!” :customer service voice:
–I near my vehicle. I don’t see ParkAtlanta. My windshield is ticket-free. Hell yes. NOT TONIGHT, SATAN.
–Wait, so the business was closed. The customer didn’t get their order. So…does the customer cancel their order? Do I have to cancel the order? In-app support isn’t very helpful and doesn’t have the specific issue I have which is HEY POSTMATES, MAYBE FUCKING CHECK AND ENSURE THE AVAILABLE BUSINESSES AT ANY GIVEN TIME ARE ACTUALLY FUCKING OPEN.
–I decide to choose “Unable to deliver product” which is…well it’s the closest option I could find. “You have canceled the order!” Wait what. “We’ve alerted the customer that you’re unable to deliver the product!” Uhhhhh, hang on – “also, canceling too many orders may result in a suspension!” As I’m reading this notification, they play the game-over jingle from Super Mario Bros. which blares from my phone, I shit you not. Yo. What. The. Fuck. How is this even my fault.
–Whatever. I’m gonna get at least one successful delivery tonight, I swear. I drive around the block waiting for another delivery request, and this time, it’s a pickup from Fritti, in Inman Park. Close to my neighborhood!
–Inman Park is lit, unsurprisingly. I find a street parking spot close to Fritti, surprisingly.
–I’ve actually never been to Fritti. I’m picking up for Postmates, I tell the host. They direct me to the bar. Among the people sitting at the bar is one dude by himself, drinking red wine, and having a whole margherita pizza. That’s the goddamn dream right there.
–I finally get to use the Postmates provided credit card. No problems. I have the customer’s pizza in hand. It smells awesome. Things are going great!
–Things are not going great. The app on my phone is freezing up and stalling. How the hell am I supposed to get to the next step if the app malfunctions? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET PAID FOR THIS SHIT?
–Luckily each delivery request detail already comes with the customer’s address. So I decide to skip the receipt step in the app, plug the address into my GPS, and get the fuck over there. Customer satisfaction first. App troubleshooting afterwards.
–This customer lives in a townhome block which is…literally behind the Fellini’s on Ponce. Uhhhh yo, why spend all this money and time waiting for a pizza when you could probably get a BIGGER pizza for the same or less money and literally just walk down your street to get it? How good is Fritti’s pizza anyway?
–I ring the doorbell. A moderately handsome dude in pajamas and a bathrobe answers the door with a smile. You don’t look like an Emma, which is the name of the customer I got from the delivery request. I don’t say this aloud, but he looks trustworthy, I guess, so I hand it over and we wish each other a good night. After the door closes, I can hear him yell “PIZZA IS HERE.” You’re goddamn right it is.
–I get back into my car. I Google for additional Postmates app support because the actual in-app delivery support is a load of bollocks; it’s basically a super limited tree of “issues” and on the ones that seem even remotely applicable to my earlier predicaments, they all to point to, “Are you experiencing complications with your pickup and/or delivery? YOU BETTER CANCEL THIS SHIT THEN AND WE’LL BLAME IT ALL ON YOU.” Great, thanks.
–I scroll down until I see “App Freezing.” Solution: restart your device!
–Oh look. Restarting my phone made the app work. Yay. I enter the receipt info. I mark the delivery as complete. I made $4.10. Cool?
–I chill out in the townhome block parking lot for a little and I get another delivery request. CookOut. Of-fucking-course! What other cheap options are open later on during the night?
–I head over to the CookOut on Moreland. I remember going here sometime the first week when it opened. Place was a madhouse. Now, it’s about as calm as most fast food joints are around 10:30pm on a Friday night near a popular bar scene. Which is…not chaotic. YET. That’ll come later around 1 or 2am, probs.
–I put in the order. Double Burger, 2 orders of fries, Coke. Simple enough. I get the food. I get back to my car. I enter the receipt SUCCESSFULLY THIS TIME, HIGH FIVE.
–The delivery address is a converted factory lofts building. I’ve driven past this place. It looks cool as fuck. The customer provided the access code and his unit number so I could deliver the food straight to his condo door.
–I climb the stairs to the third floor. Fucking hell, this place just feels cool. I dream of living in a converted loft-type apartment like this someday. I get to his door. I deliver the food. The end.
–Once again I made another $4.10. Cool. [ post – Found out that this guy tipped though! I bet he’s worked a service job before. ]
–Also it’s Friday night which means Blues Classics with H. Johnson is playing on WABE, and Nine-Below Zero, by Sonny Boy Williamson, is the current song. I love this song so much. Driving around Atlanta at night, listening to blues music, windows down, feeling the chilly night air, earning a little scratch money…not so bad.
–But first I gotta stop by home to shit.
–Smelling the food I had to deliver made me hungry. I eat a snack and set my status back to online, now that I’m off the toilet. Another Cookout request. This is what I get for being in relatively close proximity to Cookout and taking deliveries on a weekend night. At least they have a parking lot.
–I arrive at Cookout and start to order. The cashier seems a little confused when I try to describe the burger order. The total seems a bit high for two dogs, a shake, and a burger. I ask them to repeat the order. It sounds right. But it still seems like it’s a bit too high…whatever. I hand them the card, I get the receipt.
–Fucking hell, there’s an extra burger listed instead of just one. I get back in line to explain what I need. They call over the manager who gives me a cash refund. At the same time, the food comes out. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Okay, so I didn’t want this extra large burger, but I did want the other, special burger to be large instead of regular. The manager just said I can keep it.
–…o-okay I guess. What the fuck do I do? Once again, in-app support is useless. In other news, water is wet. The receipt process involves taking a picture of the receipt in addition to typing the total price of the order, before embarking on the delivery to the customer. Should I subtract the cash refund from the original total dollar amount? But they still have the receipt picture. I decide to keep the total as it is on the receipt and,I’ll just hand over the cash refund to the customer after explaining what happened.
–This delivery takes me to an area in Atlanta I haven’t been to before. Adventure time! I arrive at the house, and this dude comes out and meet me. I explain the mixup at Cookout, how they said to keep the extra burger, and I handed him the cash refund because I assumed the user basically pays the cost of whatever gets charged by the Postmate picking up the order. The dude seems nonplussed, accepts the cash, and bids me good night. Aight then. I finish up the app process and I made $7.02 from this delivery. Cool. [Post: this guy did not tip. ]
— It’s almost midnight by the time I get back to my neighborhood. I’m not thrilled at potentially getting another CookOut order. Maybe I’ll hang around a different neighborhood next time for deliveries.
I shudder at the thought of trying to make delivery runs in the thick of Atlanta traffic. I’m toying with the idea of biking but that would also limit the area I could cover and from what I can tell, when you receive a delivery request, you can’t see the customer’s location until after you accept the request. I wouldn’t be able to tell how far I’d need to get on a bike. Maybe I’ll set my delivery method to bicycle while still using my car to see if anything changes.
In the middle of writing this post, I decided it’d be beneficial to use Postmates from the consumer side. I ordered a slice of pizza from Fellini’s. It works a lot likes UberEats to be honest. The app shows you where the delivery person is in real-time. I got a notification to rate and tip the delivery person after receiving my order.
There isn’t a way to see my delivery rating, if I have one anyways, having only completed 3 orders so far. Maybe I suck.
I’ll likely try this again.
From “Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead”, one of my favorite plays, by Bert V. Royal —
“As for the questions that you are asking yourself and others: Don’t concern yourself with death. Immerse yourself in life. Enjoy every moment that you’re allowed to but keep asking questions. My dear friend. Don’t ever stop asking questions. ”
“Also, bear no malice for the ones who leave you. The only regret they feel now is the regret of not being able to tell you how they really feel.”
I’m starting to wonder if it’s always grey, wet, and dreary around the first week of February. It certainly seems that way, at least from what I’ve noticed.
I try to take this day to simply remember. And reflect.
10 years. Time flies.
I have really big news, is that I got. a mother. fucking. JOB OFFER. That’s right, I’ve officially accepted a job offer to be a full time web developer at a small company in the city I want to be in, doing what I quit my old job to do, getting paid a salary. I’ve never had a salaried job before. I’m kinda nervous. But super excited, which means eventually I’ll get to move back into the city.
So…if this is a really awesome thing to happen to me, considering the major downs I’ve been seeping in, why the hell do I still feel like my life is shit?
Probably because trying to find a new car is super stressful. Also I’ve begun looking at potential 1 bedrooms/studios to live in, which is also stressful, but should probably take a backseat to my finding a new car. And, I got a goddamn ticket for driving without my headlights turned on. I was driving my mom’s car, which used to belong to my sister, which I’ve driven maybe once, and for some reason I turned the headlights off, forgot to turn them on when I was leaving a dance, and I got fucking pulled over by a member of Atlanta’s finest to receive a citation for driving without my headlights. AMAZING. REALLY. MY LIFE ISN’T STRESSFUL ENOUGH, PLEASE, NO REALLY I INSIST, PLEASE GIVE ME MORE SHIT TO DEAL WITH.
I bought a silicone keyboard cover to place on my macbook to protect it from potential spills that may/will occur. It feels weird to type on, and I realize it muffles the speakers of this computer. So uh…it doesn’t feel quite as good to use, and it dulls a certain sensation…I’ve been calling it a keyboard condom. Yup.
But first, storytime:
A couple of days ago, I got a phone call that ID’d as someone in Atlanta/Decatur. So, I answered. “Hello?”
“Hello! This is Bob-Smith-Dude-Guy from Random-Home-Security-Company! How are you doing today?”
“Oh! I’m doing fine, thanks!”
“Wonderful! Now, I’d like to talk to you about our home security services. Are you the homeowner?”
“Sorry, I am not the homeowner.”
“(brief pause)…Okay!” he said, cheerfully.
Then he hung up.
Uhhhh, rude. Didn’t even give me a proper farewell. WELL, joke’s on him, I actually own, like, 5 houses, he would’ve made a killer commission of the sale I was about to make him.
Anyways. I was on my way to my new part-time job’s in-store training. I was super frustrated because I underestimated the traffic to get into the city, and I was feeling really bummed and sad and stressed about losing Carla and having to find a new car and deal with insurance. I was about 20 minutes away from the store, stopped at a red light behind a line of other cars.
A panhandler was walking down the lanes, waving at drivers and holding a sign that said something about helping him eat today. I never give money to panhandlers, but that day, I remembered I had a granola bar in my bag. I grabbed it, rolled down my window, and called the guy over once I got his attention. I handed him the granola bar. He thanked me, and he continued down the street behind me as the light turned green, and I drove away.
I wasn’t sure if he’d even accept the granola bar. Ya hear stories about people offering to buy panhandlers food, only to have their offer rejected because they really just want money for…things. I guess. So, I felt just a little better that the dude took my granola bar.
What I’m trying to say is: yeah, right now, I feel pretty shitty. But things could be a lot worse. I’m in a fairly good spot, all things considered. I just gotta keep my perspective on life.
Also, last night I cracked open a fortune cookie that read, “Your skills and talents will soon be recognized.” God I hope so, if this refers to the interview I just had today. Which went well. I’m pretty optimistic about it.
I got into a seriously serious car accident Sunday night.
I had just spent an amazing weekend in Charleston, SC, dancing and DJing at CHEX, the Charleston Lindy Exchange. I was on my way home, about an hour+ out of Charleston, just a little north of Orangeburg. For some reason, my gps likes to tell me to take some state roads to get from I26 to I20, instead of staying on the interstate until I hit Columbia to then get onto I20. I guess my phone sees this triangle-esque formation and is all, “hey, you should take these small-ass deer country roads where the speed limit is 45mph and under!”
“But Sebastian, (my phone’s official name, check his birth certificate) wouldn’t it be easier and possibly faster to just stick to the interstate?”
“stfu It’s shorter, mileage-wise, ya nerd.”
I pulled off of the interstate, readying myself to navigate some spooky small roads. I glanced at my phone to check my gps when I suddenly detected something in my periphery.
I looked up to see the driver side door of a pickup truck engulfing the view through my windshield.
I believe I managed to get in an, “oh, FUCK–” before I saw my airbags deploy.
There was a STUPIDLY loud bang, much like a gunshot. Smelled like a gunshot too, like sulfur, matches, fireworks. I thought I was dead for a split second, I didn’t manage to brake in time to slow myself down at all.
But guess what? I didn’t die. I realized I was not dead, just stunned, but conscious enough to continue swearing. However, I noticed I was still moving…and now I was off the road, onto the shoulder…and oh, no, I’ve started to drive down this hill that will take me lord knows where. I should probably try to stop, but I was still dazed from the impact.
“Kevin, stop thinking you’re dying, you’re fine. Now stop the damn car.” Okay, okay, me. I’m stopping, geez.
I applied the brakes, put Carla into park, pulled the e-brake. I took a moment to touch myself (huehuehue) and I confirmed that all my appendages were accounted for, and that I was about 90% sure I hadn’t broken anything. My left arm and hand was bloodied though, I figured it was from my windshield breaking and sending tiny bits of glass everywhere. I then realized my stereo was still blasting a track from Muse’s “The Second Law” (which is an album I really enjoy by the way). God I can’t believe I like to listen to music at such a volume. I shut off the stereo, and marveled at how quiet everything was, save the clicking of my emergency hazard lights.
I noticed that the passenger side smelled oddly of beer/apple juice when I remembered that I had a few bottles of Shocktop Honeycrisp Apple Wheat beer (it’s tasty, you should try it) sitting my trunk…so I guess those managed to fly to the front of my car, break, and spill beer everywhere. Great. I hope the police officer doesn’t think I was drinking, because I totally wasn’t. I was ready to take a breathalyzer and everything (spoiler alert, he did not question if I’d been drinking. Whew). At least none of the bottles smashed into the back of my head or body because I imagine that would’ve been no bueno.
Time to call 911, I thought. But where was my phone? Oh, it fell down. Ugh, when you need to call 911 but you’re phone is on the floor of your car because you just got in a wicked accident and it’s a struggle because you’re in pain and your hand and arm stings from being cut, you know life is hard. I finally manage to grab Sebastian (that bastard), and I called 911. I wish I could say I ended up getting streaks of blood onto my phone, because that would’ve been super dramatic and dangerously cool, maybe, probably, but I was not bleeding that much. I gave the dispatcher my approximate location, confirmed it was just me in the car, but then she asked about the other vehicle.
Oh shit, the small pickup truck I t-boned the fuck out of.
I heard a voice, male, wailing “oh fuck, oh FUCK, dude, I’m so sorry…” and I suddenly start panicking. Did I kill the driver? His door was the last thing I saw before the collision. I was stopped halfway down a small hill and from where I was sitting I could only see one of the headlights from the other vehicle. I tried to open my door, but it was stuck. It was partially blocked from the front of my car being smashed and bent in (you can see this in the picture). I was able to push it open with enough effort. I raised myself up enough to see more of the road and the pickup truck…oh no. It was on its side.
I told the dispatcher what I saw. She said emergency services were on their way, I thanked her, and she said goodbye. “That was a rather curt farewell,” I thought, as I replayed her last word in my mind. Eh, they’re supposed to sound calm and try to remain emotionally detached from the situation, I concluded.
Then, I heard two voices. I turned around and saw the two guys from the truck walking toward me. They looked about my age, or maybe a year or two younger. They asked me if I was okay. I said yes. I asked them if they were okay. They said yes. Thank god…I didn’t kill anyone. No one was dead. We all appear to be just fine.
I waited in Carla for help to arrive. A number of cars stopped and asked if we were all okay and if we needed help. Some of them also called 911. I guess it looked pretty bad back on top of the hill on the road, but I was grateful that people stopped. That’s pretty nice of them. As I waited, I called my mom. Voicemail. I called my girlfriend. Voicemail. “They’ll be in for a nice surprise,” I giggled. Just kidding, I didn’t think that, though I did imagine they’d be worried once they listen to my message.
EMTs (or were they paramedics? I don’t know) arrived fairly quickly – I was impressed. They helped me out of my car and up the hill, where I joined the two dudes I collided with. They were sitting on the ground, smoking American Spirits. Fuck, that sounded really good at the moment. I asked if I could have one. They said yes.
I joined them on the ground, sucking on the cigarette with shaky hands as we answered the EMTs questions. No, we did not have any broken bones. No, we didn’t think we needed to go to the hospital. However, my arm and hand was a little cut up, could they take a look at that? They helped me up off the ground and I stood near the ambulance as they washed my wounds with some sterile water and applied light pressure with a cloth to staunch the bleeding. He asked me if I think I had any glass in my lacerations. I didn’t think so? He said if I did have glass in my hand and arm, I’d probably be in A LOT more pain at the moment as he pressed on me, so that was good. I finished the cigarette, absurdly fast, I thought to myself. I threw it on the ground, and I snubbed it out.
A highway patrol officer had arrived on the scene and checked up on us. We said we were all right. But suddenly, I started feeling extremely light-headed. I leaned against the side of the ambulance. My hearing started getting muffled, like everyone started talking through a plastic bag and I had cotton balls in my ears. They noticed my change in demeanor and sat me down just inside the ambulance. They continued cleaning my wounds. I gave the officer my driver’s license. The EMT wrapped my wrist in gauze to help with the more gnarly cuts.
The fainting sensation soon passed, and I confirmed for maybe the 5th time that I did not want to go to a hospital. The ambulances left. The officer asked me what happened, from my perspective. I told him I was going down the road when suddenly the pickup truck crossed the road right in front of me. He asked how fast I was going. I didn’t remember exactly, but I was definitely going very fast…maybe pushing 60. In hindsight, I probably wasn’t going THAT fast considering I just took an exit ramp, but it felt like that, so whatever.
Then, what followed was a lot of standing around, and waiting. The officer went back to his car to fill out a report. Apparently he had to restart his computer, which added to the time it took for him to complete entering all the information. Meanwhile, the tow trucks came to move our vehicles. One tow company pulled the pickup truck out of the middle of the road, and it was during this process that I noticed the rear driver-side wheel was just gone. Like not just the hubcap, or tire, but the whole fucking wheel. It was recovered at the bottom of the hill, maybe 6 feet from where Carla was stopped.
Yeah that’s right. I hit the pickup truck so hard that I snapped off one of its wheels. Badass.
But, when I looked at the side of their vehicle, the bottom half of the driver and rear-driver doors were pretty much caved in. It was truly sickening…if they were riding in a sedan, or another vehicle of similar height to mine, I most likely would have killed the driver. Since this guy was sitting higher than the front end of my car, he avoided getting hit directly, with most of the impact happening just underneath him.
A different tow company and truck came to pull Carla off the hill, which is when I took the above picture. Hood rolled/folded up. Windshield smashed/bent inwards. You can see how my car essentially tried to slide under their pickup truck from the angle of how the front is bent and crumpled.
The officer finally got out of his car to give us the low-down. Based on what each of us told him, we were both at fault for the collision. Me, for speeding, and the other guy, for negligence/failing to yield. We each got a citation, womp womp. We each got a copy of the collision report to give to our respective insurance companies.
The driver’s parents came to pick him and his friend up. Me, I was stranded in basically butt-fuck nowhere, but the highway patrol officer was kind enough to give me a ride a couple exits back to where a bunch of hotels and restaurants were located. Hey, my first time riding in a patrol car! I mentioned this fact to the officer, and he replied, “Good thing you’re up here sitting in the front, and not in the back, wearing the shiny bracelets.” I kinda like this guy.
During the drive down the interstate, the officer’s radar started buzzing and beeping. The officer read it and exclaimed, “What?! 100?!?!?!” A moment later, an SUV came into view. He was barreling down the road behind us, coming up on our asses hard without realizing it was a patrol car he was about to pass. That driver IMMEDIATELY slowed down once he reached us though. The officer radioed in the speeding driver, since he had me to take to a hotel (without even buying me dinner! Gosh!) and didn’t have the time to pull the speeder over. I almost piped up that I wouldn’t mind if he pursued the driver…but I’m sure there’s probably some legality/protocol issues regarding having a random civilian ride shotgun during a police chase. Maybe next time, I thought.
I checked in at a hotel and I thanked the officer for his assistance. Once I got to my room, I flopped myself down onto the bed. What a fucking night. I called my mom and girlfriend again, separate instances, and talked to them both, sending them the picture I took, assuring them I was okay. It was a goddamn miracle that no one died, much less broke any bones. I couldn’t believe it.
I decided to do something I hadn’t done in a really, really long time. I took a bath. I managed to grab my backpack and suitcase from Carla before they towed her away, so I at least had my computer and a change of clothes plus my toiletries. I drew some hot water, and soaked myself after I set my computer down on a chair to watch some youtube.
I messaged my brother and sister, letting them know what had happened, and that I was safe. I was starting to get alarmingly stressed at the prospect of dealing with insurance and finding a new vehicle. But it was almost 2am at this point, and I was exhausted. I slept.
The next morning, I checked out and walked down to one of the fast food restaurants to eat and wait for my girlfriend and a friend to come pick me up. Lucky for me that they decided to stay in Charleston for an extra night. I took the opportunity to call my insurance company and open a claim. I finally called my dad, also sent him a picture of the wreckage, and he then almost demanded that I stop by his house later that night so he could check me himself because he was convinced no one could walk away from a car accident that bad-looking without breaking something in his body. I obliged. He’s my dad, after all. Oh, and a doctor.
Once I was picked up, we drove to the towing lot where Carla was being held, to clean her out and get my belongings. I took more pictures now that it was light out. Oh, my poor, poor Carla…
Once I got all my things, it was time to say goodbye. I almost cried. She was my first car – I got her the summer of 2010. I think about all the places I’ve driven to. The couple of times I had to bum it out and sleep in her for the night. The people I was with on long drives and road trips. The important, meaningful conversations with friends. The solo vocal and dance performances. The food and drink I’ve accidentally spilt.
I think about how terrible this accident was, just from looking at the damage to the vehicles, and Carla…she protected me.
My sister suggested the name, you know. I knew it was perfect, because how could I not pass up on that pun?
Currently, I’m still in talks with the insurance companies and waiting to hear back about settlements and the next steps I’ll have to take. On top of that, I have a metric ass-ton (it’s an SI unit, look it up) of shit and tasks to do this week. It’s like this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.
But I am alive. And I am grateful to still be here.
But I’m still stressed. There’s so much I have to do, and this accident is just kicking me when I’m already down on the ground about other things going on in my life.
And like, I can drive a car just fine. I had to get a rental for the time being, and it’s not like I have paralyzing panic attacks that incapacitate me, reducing me to a hyperventilating bag of flesh. It’s surreal, almost like it never happened, probably because I never thought I’d ever end up in a collision this bad.
One of those “it can happen to anyone” moments of clarity, I s’pose.
I look at the cuts on my hand and arm, occasionally still finding a tiny piece of windshield in the wounds. I touch my chest and hips where the bruising is, where my seatbelt held me in place, and think, if I hadn’t been wearing it, I would’ve been flung through the windshield.
I can stare off into space, and I’m back in my car, looking up to suddenly see the other vehicle, and I’m reliving the impact, the sounds, the smells, the surge of adrenaline that followed immediately after.
I’m still alive.
But the amount of bullshit I have to deal with has just multiplied.
But I’m still alive.
And I guess I just have to keep telling myself that.
Though for some reason I’m not feeling the spirit…at all.
Maybe it has to do with how busy I’ve been the last 3 months, as well as moving all my stuff, feeling like I don’t really belong any one place and I don’t know what to call home right now. That I’m super anxious about finding a new job.
And everyone is excited for Lindy Focus…but I kinda just want to make it through in one piece. I’m not particularly thrilled about the thousands of people I’ll be bumping shoulders with, even if a fraction of that mass is my friends.
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is my favorite Christmas song. It’s hopeful. But bittersweet. Almost melancholic. This version captures how I feel.
The past two weeks of my life have been a blur, equal parts stress-crushing and high-exciting.
For a little while, I’ve been trying to figure out how to learn coding/programming, because for a longer while, I’ve been looking for a career switch. My job in clinical research was good, but it was initially meant as a gap year deal. Didn’t get into the school I wanted, so then what? My interests in becoming a healthcare professional waned the longer I was in a patient-health environment. That ruled out med/optometry school. I could expand and grow in the clinical research industry, maybe become monitor, but to, what, spend half my time traveling site to site, double checking peoples’ work to make sure they checked the right boxes and signed the correct lines?
Nah. Boring. I need something new.