I live on a really large main street. People (notoriously) drive like complete maniacs here–in this city, in general, but on my street, in particular. I spend most of my driving time around here dodging two-lane-occupying taxis, drunken frat boys (both the walking and driving kinds), jaywalking/suicidal pedestrians, double-parked furniture trucks, the kids who are generally hopped up on goofballs, all of them, and oh yeah, the train.

Last night, coming home at around midnight from a calm, sober dinner with IB/DM, I was pulled over and issued a $100 ticket for going 40 in the (apparently) 30 MPH zone of my street. How I was able to get to 40 mph between red lights is only the first mystery. How I was noticed, singled out, and cited is really the mystery of the ages. How I will manage to dole out *more* money when my bank account statement right now reads $2.06 is a mystery I refuse to ponder right now.

I kind of wish the universe would just call me up and say, Luckybuzz, we need to talk, instead of sending me all these passive-aggressive messages.

Oh, and? Between Thanksgiving and Jason’s birthday, I gained back 2 pounds this week.

I think I need better jokes, people.

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