Bad day? Black Lips.

Let me tell you a story.

I’m three weeks away from moving into my new apartment in Toronto, so I decide it would be a good idea to get my G license before I sell my car.

I wake up on a gorgeous sunny morning. The night before, I was super Type-A and replaced my indicator lightbulbs and topped up my fluids. I make my way to the testing center with some homemade chocolate trail mix and an apple in my pocket.

I wait on standby and luckily, someone cancels. My tester gets into the car and we breeze through all the checkpoints (I even did a parfect parallel park without scraping nearby cars).

I’m flying down the highway at a conservative 100 clicks when I notice that my car has begun making a choking tutter, like a disapproving mother-in-law. I realize the radiator is drier than dust and it’s cooking the motor. I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel as the tester mouths instructions. We’re less than a kilometer back when the car completely dies in an intersection in front of a police officer. She storms out of her vehicle threatening fines while I stammer that my car won’t move. Luckily, some guys push me into a nearby abandoned lot as rush hour traffic whizzes by. The driving tester shakes her head, rips my test, and tells me I’ve failed. My car gets towed away to the wrecking yard.

Now I have no car, no G license, and no way to get to work for the next 3 weeks.

How do I cope? Black Lips on repeat, forever.

I want to laugh and I want to cry
I want to spit, but my mouth is dry
I want to run but I can’t cause my legs don’t go.
Where did they go?

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