Boy do I hate the gas station
To start off you have to park the car. Then you park the car and the gas tank is on the other side of your car. So you awkwardly have to get back in the car while all the middle aged white moms look at you like you are ET’s rotting corpse. Then you get back in the car and your wife starts saying how she was right and the kids are fighting and you start to remember why you are depressed.
Then you get to the pump again and you select all of your opinions and its finally time to pump the fuel. BEEEEEEEEEEEEP. BITCH YOU BETTER PICK WHAT TYPE OF FUEL YOU WANT RIGHT FUCKING NOW OR I WILL FIND WHERE YOU LIVE AND END YOU. Im not kidding. Literally as soon as you pick up the gas pump it screams at you like a ghoul to pick the type of gas you want. And it won’t give up. It will be like Men and woman at Waco and stand its ground until you hit it with full force.
So now you are pumping while trying to not get frost bite on your hand since you happened to choose the pump that doesn’t have the thing to hold the gas pump pumping. Its like the government wants you to suffer. “He is a bitch. Take the gold plate on his gas pump away so he he has to hold the lever”.
CLICK. Nope don’t believe you im gonna pump more. CLICK. Ehhhh not yet im gonna pump more CLICK CLICK CLICK ok I believe you
Would you like a receipt. No, no one wants a fucking receipt ever. We say we do but they end up in our coat pockets and we find them a year later and go. “Oh yeah I went to ruby Tuesdays last March” and then we throw it out.
So then you get back in the car with a hand that smells like an old Mexican grandma who drives a rusted Toyota minivan and you look out your Mirror. “Oh fuck I left the gas tank open”.
