A Fan Is A Fan

I went to see about a fan. A motor really. I found a motor and I am not a fan.

HONK! Oh no you didn’t, honk me in a car?!? Big mistake. Big. Huge. I don’t need to go shopping now, but this wasn’t Rodeo Drive, and I am not a Pretty Woman.

Truly, maybe it was a Rodeo driving up my ass. I couldn't quite tell.

I stopped at the marked crosswalk, clearly signed, between the bumps, for a young mother with a stroller. I mean really. Young Mother With Stroller!

Then, I heard the horn, looked up and saw a vehicle lift up my bumper. Not actually, but I bet his paint scared itself onto my bumper.

Did I mention, NOT a pretty woman? I am covered in grease, filth, and sweat. I have spent the last few hours unable to sit up in a 185 degree attic fighting bolts that won’t turn when I want them to and do when I don’t with tools that don’t quite fit in the space I have to work. I am frustrated. Dehydrated. Obsessed. OH Please, fuck with me. Give me a reason to drive slower than I bike, just because I CAN.

I am not a fan of cars. I am not a fan of assholes. I am really not a fan of assholes in cars.

I am a huge fan of attic fans. Attic fans that work. Attic fans that I am the boss of. Uh-huh yeah.