Flat Tires Will Make You Drunk.

So, I got into my car yesterday morning (2 minutes ahead of schedule), started to back out of the driveway, and heard a errrrghgghgeereerghgh. Oh shit. Flat tire. (I immediately thought that my tire had been slashed by rock-throwing neighbor girl, but it probably had more to do with low tread and the fact that our street resembles Fallujah because of all of the road work.)

Inconvenient.

So Matt and I did some car juggling throughout the day, and when I got home from school my first task was to change a tire. This is a task that I can do, but would rather not do. And I was super bitter that the tire-changing messed up my nails. Oh, and while we're on the topic of nail color, how do we feel about this one? Does it say "springtime fun" or "'80s Trailer Trash"?

(Bottle #4 of Sally Hanson's Complete Salon Manicure--this one is "I Pink I Can.")

Back to the tire. By the time I changed the tire and got the people at Goodyear working to replace it, it was 4:45. Matt and I decided to wait at La Napolera (favorite Savannah Mexican restaurant), which wasn't the worst thing in the world, especially because it was Cinco de Mayo.

Two and a half hours and three margaritas later, after I befriended a fellow patron because she was wearing a [hideaously ugly] tshirt with my boyfriend Barack on it, after discussing the theme of Romeo and Juliet with the Goodyear tire guy, after failing to drink enough water, my ass was in bed.

And my ass stayed in bed for twelve hours.