#my rear wipers won’t budge though

[vertejay]

Im currently sitting in the freezing cold trying to get snow off of my car and defrost it. Soft snow they said! MY WINDSHIELD WIPERS ARE STUCK HELP ME I have to go turn my car off, lock my car, grab a scraper, and do the process all over again. 😭😭

[bwenner]

"And baby what did you expect / Gonna burst into flame!"

So Richie runs a stoplight and nearly hits and kills a homeless lady pushing shopping-cart garbage. He turns the wrong way onto a one-way. Car horns blare and oncoming lights blind us and veer off the road and he’s saying he doesn’t wanna go anywhere near Lauralie’s. He’s yelling, talking over me, he doesn’t wanna go anywhere near Lauralie’s even though I don’t want him any fuckin where near Lauralie’s, even though I’m screaming one-way. One-way. One-way!

He’s annoyed. “I know!” he says, and traffic slams to a horn orchestra halt and there comes the cymbal crash of somebody rear-ending somebody else in the distance while he makes a U-turn across three lanes. Rainy streetlights he doesn’t listen to light up condensation on the windows and a heartbeat straitjacket keeps my hands on my throat, worrying my hands around my throat, holding my throat open with my hands, my heart is trying to clog my throat, and the beamer’s right headlight pool-cues off rain glitter garbage cans on the sidewalks. The windshield keeps getting cloudier and I’m holding my throat open and I’m turning the door handle, over and over, hitting the lock, pulling the lock over and over and it won’t budge and the condensation is whiting out the windshield and I’m screaming, “Let me out!”

“I’ll take you home. I’ll just take you home.”

He keeps hitting the wipers but the fog is inside.

“Let me outta the fuckin car, Uncle Richie!”

“I’m taking you home!”

“Let me outta the fuckin car!”

And I don’t know how I get him to go to Jaxxx. He takes out a light pole in the parking lot. He parks diagonal across four different spaces. Under the green neon tube sign that flashes from black-tailed gull to thong-clad girl, he’s trembling more coke lines outta some folded magazine square from his pocket, lining them up on a cracked Talking Heads CD case with four red Hannibal Lecter faces he pulled from the floor, and his nose is bleeding and he won’t shut off the safety lock. He doesn’t have irises anymore and he won’t unlock the door. He’s snorting with a bloody fifty-dollar bill and he’s telling me to get out but he won’t unlock the door, “Get the fuck outta my car!” and I can’t, and I say let me out, “Get the fuck out!” and he vacuums lines with Ulysses S. Grant’s tubed face. Let me out, and he won’t let me out and I’m trembling and I need a fuckin cigarette. I need a fuckin cigarette, I’m fuckin trembling, my knees are buckled and I’m trembling and my face is wet and I can’t keep hold of the lock anymore, the golf-tee lock that won’t budge up or down, and then he pins a Menthol Lucky in my mouth and he lights it. And then he’s got his face in mine and his hand grabbing my hair, back of my head. And then he’s screaming in my face, the lighter in his hand, the fifty in his hand, tequila breath, screaming that nothing matters, he’s survived everything, nothing matters, and then Spanish. He’s speaking Spanish and then he burns the fifty dollar bill—he sets the fifty on fire inside the car with his lighter, he sets it on fire and holds it up, boring his head into my head, breaking physics, his eyes into mine, frontal lobe into mine, temporal lobe into mine, he holds the burning dollar next to my head and he’s trying to scalp pulling my hair and he speaks Spanish and he holds the money burning all the way to his thumb, burning in his empty no-iris eyes, and he’s screaming at me and I don’t know what he’s screaming, I don’t recognize him and I don’t know what he’s screaming. I’m holding my throat, I’m holding the door handle, I’m holding my scream.