Old F***ing C**ts, and Other Dangers of Driving in New Jersey

We sat outside a Starbucks in Secaucus, sipping our green tea Frappuccinos and talking about nothing in particular.

During a lull in conversation, he looks across the table and says, very simply, "I love you."

I smile.

"I love you too."

Too bad he's fucking gay.

Today was my Great Zipcar Adventure, and Slater--with whom, after yesterday morning's bout of pissiness, I am no longer annoyed--and I made the trek to Secaucus in search of a PetSmart that would allow me to place a 40lb tub of cat litter into a cart and roll it right out to my car.

First of all, I would just like to say that Google Maps? Has NO idea how to estimate driving time. 36 minutes, up to 46 in traffic? Puh-lease! Traffic in New York City takes on a dimension far beyond that of, say, Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. NYC Traffic simultaneously adds hours to your journey while it removes years from your life. NYC traffic is, essentially, the work of Satan.

Or maybe George Bush. But I digress.

It should be noted that, when behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, the foulness of my language obtains epic proportions previously unknown to the universe. The title of this post was Slater's favourite epithet of the day, which I spat at an old man driving a Saab who cut me off somewhere in New Jersey, at which time I had fucking had it with people. Specifically people behind the wheels of all motor vehicles in the tristate area.

I'm not entirely sure what portion of NJ saw the birth of this particular gem because, again, Google Maps? Like the majority of the population, has NO idea how to drive in Jersey. (Apologies to DS, I'm sure you're just a super driver... but the rest of your state? Well, there's a special circle of hell reserved just for them).

At any rate, we drove around in circles for a good 20 minutes before actually finding the shopping center--in the exact opposite direction from the one in which GM told us to drive--and another 20 driving around a megalithic complex of shopping malls and cheap, chain hotels, looking for the shopping center that housed the PetSmart.

All was not in vain however, and between cooing over kitties and bemoaning a depressed chinchilla, I managed to purchase 2 months worth of cat litter and cat food for the nominal fee of $40.

We drove back via Manhattan--where traffic was once again atrocious anywhere south of 14th Street--and into Williamsburg so I could sell some old clothes at a hipster-infested consignment shop there. Ever since PetSmart I had been feeling kinda shitty, but by this point I felt like death and was starting to lose my voice. Slater rode back with me to my apartment--and lugged the 40lb tub of cat litter up the stairs for me, bless him--and then took off so I could take a much needed nap.

I didn't nap, so much as rolled around and sweated profusely with my eyes closed for 2 hours, but am feeling somewhat better. After I drive back up to Williamsburg to pick up the 43lbs of laundry I dropped off this afternoon (because same-day service apparently doesn't exist in my neighborhood), I plan on going straight back to bed.

Only 2 more full days in New York before I leave!! Yikes!!

Hope your Monday was equally eventful... and free of Fucking Old Cunts.