When your car doesn’t start and you consider falling asleep in the front seat to claim your ownership of the frail and twisted metallic heap that used to spring to life at your command (2015 Chevrolet Malibu the color of Champagne)

Last night I fell asleep praying

or maybe it was more like

pleading (for someone

to take me out swiftly).

Preferably painlessly.

I sat, cradled, by the clutch of

my front seat (eyes fixed 

on the Chevy emblem) (leather

stiff on my shoulders).

I waited ninety minutes 

(ninety minutes for someone

to save me from my misery with 

two cables and an electric current).

I imagined my savior (my Jumper Cable Jesus)

coming for me (save my car with a clear! and

a jolt) (I would cry tears of joy) (I would

give him a hug).

My mother called me four separate times:

Any luck?

Any luck:

That was what I was praying for.

I prayed to my Jumper Cable Jesus

but he never came.

I am at a loss in more ways than one (happy spring break)

I clutch to the familiarity of the belongings in my pockets to have something to hold on to (remind me I am still alive though barely):

Keys, gum wrapper, small coin (dime maybe), crumbs, and a lucky pebble (clear round spherical thing) that I keep in this coat’s pocket because something always seems to go wrong when I’m wearing it. 

This time it’s that my car isn’t starting (I am in the West Village). My car isn’t starting, it is the coldest day of the week (I can’t feel my feet), and I have been waiting for a tow truck for over ninety minutes. I am starting to lose conscious ability to keep myself warm (I remind my blood to keep flowing to my extremities) (but it is getting more difficult). 

Today my professor looked at me (he seemed sorry but not pitiful) and said when it rains it doesn’t pour it actually just rains for a really long time. 

It has been raining for two years now and I am starting to wonder whether this rain is acidic or not because it really fucking hurts.

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