Avenue of Seeing Stars (from pain)

In the previous entry, I cavalierly boasted that a day stuck in traffic was probably as bad as my new job would get. This did not seem like cavalier boasting at the time, but it turns out that it was.

Not long into the next day, I got a $65 parking ticket, meaning that I spent the bulk of my remaining workday hoping to break even (pay varies from day to day, and I will not know how much I've made on any given day until I see the itemized list that comes with each paycheck, the first of which I will not receive until March 5th). I was good and pissed about the parking ticket, because I was not the only person parked in the particular alley's fire lane with my blinkers going. Still, I realized nothing could be done about it, so I did not dwell on what, given my current fiscal status, amounts to something of a minor financial catastrophe, and instead continued with my job. I did well at it, too; I'm learning my way around, learning which roads to avoid, when to use the freeways, when to stick with surface roads, and all that goog, tedious shit. So, despite the steady rains and the aforementioned ticket and getting slighty confused a couple times on the outskirts of Culver City, the rest of my day went pretty well.

That is, it went well until my last delivery; I was pulling into a loading area on Avenue of the Stars in Century City, up along a curb, as directed by the security guard. It turned out, though, that what he'd told me wasn't to pull up against the curb, but to watch out for the curb. Let it suffice to say that, as soon as I dropped off whatever it was I was there to drop off, I went back to my car and got the spare tire out of my trunk. It took me a few minutes to figure out how to use the weird, German jack that came with my car, but soon enough the flat was off. I was just starting to put the spare on when the jack slipped and the car came crashing down. On my hand. I hopped around in pain for a minute or two, then called AAA.

There's really no punchline to this story. I went home and iced my hand. The next day, I went to a clinic and got it x-rayed. Thanks to my superhuman bone density, the alarming swelling in the lower half of my left index finger turned out to be nothing more than a painful contusion. It didn't even garner me any fun drugs, so the tediousness of my weekend lacked even a moderate narco-haze. At least I can take the splint off in the morning.