Fortunately, I had just renewed the registration for the year...
This threw off my schedule. Time was wasted. Too much time. I hate wasted time.
If you're a writer, you should own at least one old car that gives you headaches, just like you should have at least one low paying job where you interact with people. Customer service jobs are great for writers.
Ha! Look at you, Corsair! Giving advice like a Stephen King! Next I'll post a list of do's and don't's for "writers."
But these past few weeks were a nightmare. I don't like riding the bus in Los Angeles. There is something about cruising through gang country in a thinly-shielded public-service vehicle that brings out all of my military training. It makes me tactically anxious.
I borrowed a car instead, until I can purchase my own vehicle, but I like that as much as borrowing another man's woman; sadly, I know what that's like.
My February is wasted. I think I have so far written more in this post than I have fiction. Now, I sit with my thumbs wrestling each other, waiting for things to settle. It's the type of waste that stings you because you want to do so much.
Let March begin! End horrible February!