the salvage yard took my car today. the driver called me this morning - he spoke a million miles an hour and it sounded like he said, "this is bobbo from the salvage yard in sikeston, missourah." (i think i'll take comfort in assuming his name really was bobbo.) i came out in my pajamas to give him the keys. he stared at my boobs, in a split-second fulfilling every small-town-car-guy stereotype in the book since he was already sporting a well-groomed mullet and visible chest hair.

i can't figure out why, but i'm pretty upset about my car dying, evidenced by the fact that i took pictures from behind the blinds in my living room while bobbo loaded it onto the flatbed.

goodbye, little honda. at first, i hated you for your flashy spoiler and white paint, but you were good to me. i'll remember you fondly.

services will be held sometime this week at shakespeare's pizza on south ninth street. help me poor some rogue on the floor for my dead comrade.

jessica