“After refusing treatment and punching both her mother and brother in the middle of the street, Tiffany was run over by a cement mixer and killed. The next day, all of her family and friends accidentally took mind-altering drugs that completely erased her memory from their brains.”—How I wish that episode of Intervention ended
Currently on the Super Shuttle, which I consider a LUXURY as my airport travels are usually made up of a 20 minute walk to the red line, which I take to Union Station, where I get on the Flyaway bus to LAX. Shoved in the back row with no AC or window access, I feel absolutely pampered at this moment.
To answer the question I know you’re asking, I’m just weird about rides to the airport. I feel uncomfortable both asking for them and receiving them. So I stay self reliant.
I thought the van would arrive at 845 so I planned to be ready promptly at 845. At 815 I discovered that the van would arrive between 830 and 845…meaning I had 15 minutes to shower, get my clothes out of the dryer, and PACK EVERYTHING.
So I left my apartment with wet clothes strewn about the living room, wet dishes on the counter, and an empty pizza box on my door step because there was NO TIME TO TAKE IT TO THE DUMPSTER.
When I was going to school in Chicago I worked in the coffee shop in our dorm. Often times I would be too lazy to make “white mocha” mix and would just fill the jug with milk. I never received a single complaint.
I had reeeallllly blonde hair when I was a kid. When I was 8 or 9 or something my Dad gave me a buzz cut, and because my hair was so light I looked bald. My mom HATED it and said I looked like a Leukemia patient.