Where's my sandwich?
feed them recently) left me with the scraps of my meal. Dammit. Someone ate my sandwich, and I want answers. The culprit could have asked me. I would've said no, but I'm thinking courtesy here. I just want my sandwich back.
And I've always liked the shortened version a-hole. I just like the way it sounds. Another one of those things that is funny to me.
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Three years ago tonight was when my car got towed. I went to a Pacers game and parked close to the Circle. According to the street signs, it looked as though it was OK. However, after the game, it was gone. I asked a police officer, and he said something about new times. New times that weren't posted. So we had to walk three miles or so to the impound. It was an uncomfortable walk. Not only was it cold, but once you go under the I-65 overpass, the area of town shifts to something not so nice. We got there fine, but a car impound at 12:30 a.m. is not the happiest place in the world. It was more like a glorified trailer with oppresively bright flouresant lights. A woman and her husband argued about why it was a bad idea to park "there," and the people behind the plastic barrier separating the public from the workers were not exactly pleasant either. I got the car back, but there were no redeeming qualities about the experience.