I had fully planned to use this evening after my photography class to let you in on how my weekend in Toronto went. Instead, I came home from work to a note on my windshield. "Sorry about the dent."
Yeah, this dent ... and paint chips ... and scrape ... and huge hole in the paint ... and bending of the metal around the headlight:
Holy heavens people. LOOK at the space in the alley by my car. I am not even as far to the edge of my parking spot as I could be.
Yeah, this dent ... and paint chips ... and scrape ... and huge hole in the paint ... and bending of the metal around the headlight:
Holy heavens people. LOOK at the space in the alley by my car. I am not even as far to the edge of my parking spot as I could be.This person rammed my car directly. Directly. Rammed. I mean COME ON!
The "apology" was written on the back of a child's crayon drawing (and by child's crayon drawing, I mean a collection of crayon colours in a somewhat round shape that one is required to assume was drawn by a child of quite limited years). I called the number -- angry, as you can quite imagine. I got an answering machine. Then I took a plethora of photographs and called the police. Who advised me to give her 24 hours, and then call them to come out and take a report if I do not hear from her.
Then I went to my photography class. And I have something after work each night this week, which means I am going to have to cancel something if I have to wait for the police to come by. I never needed this, but as weeks go I needed this less than usual.
Got home from my photography class to no message from this woman. I'm starting to think letting the police get involved is the best option ... for her. Because she won't like me now that I'm angry.
(Toronto went fine. I'll elaborate when I'm not consumed by the fire of vengeance. My poor KITT. He sat for three days in an airport parking lot without incident ... then he is attacked at home. What has the world come to?)
The "apology" was written on the back of a child's crayon drawing (and by child's crayon drawing, I mean a collection of crayon colours in a somewhat round shape that one is required to assume was drawn by a child of quite limited years). I called the number -- angry, as you can quite imagine. I got an answering machine. Then I took a plethora of photographs and called the police. Who advised me to give her 24 hours, and then call them to come out and take a report if I do not hear from her.
Then I went to my photography class. And I have something after work each night this week, which means I am going to have to cancel something if I have to wait for the police to come by. I never needed this, but as weeks go I needed this less than usual.
Got home from my photography class to no message from this woman. I'm starting to think letting the police get involved is the best option ... for her. Because she won't like me now that I'm angry.
(Toronto went fine. I'll elaborate when I'm not consumed by the fire of vengeance. My poor KITT. He sat for three days in an airport parking lot without incident ... then he is attacked at home. What has the world come to?)
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