I was hit.
I don’t suppose it was terribly dramatic, and compared to most of the rest of the world’s problems, it was nothing but a ding. But, there it is. I was hit. Here’s the damage.
Scratches. Rear side-light popped. Dents. Estimate, over $1000. I was backing out of a parking space. Really slowly, as is my way. She was backing out of a parking space. Really fast. She was a teenager. Long story short, everyone thought it was everyone else’s fault. In the end, no one meant to do it, and perhaps, perhaps, there was some carelessness, some lack of attention being paid but . . . that’s life. Nobody wanted to involve insurance. Everyone gets screwed by body shops and dealers.
I know it’s a small thing. Honestly. But $1000 is a lot of money to me. A LOT. And, see, it’s coming on the second Sunday in June and I’m not nominated for a Tony Award and I haven’t been to New York in forever and I haven’t had much luck with my submissions or freelance attempts lately and I received anonymous hate-missive telling me about myself and I’m feeling a tiny bit discouraged.
AND THE DREAMS ARE BACK. All last night I was trapped in this dystopian world of collapse. Everyone in it was someone I have known from real life and about whom I have been mistaken. It was this combination of “THE TALENTED MR. RIPLEY” and “THE HUNGER GAMES” because I kept having to dodge and duck these unexpected hits from these people.
It was awful. I kept waking up. Each time I thought, “thank goodness, it’s over” but then, BANG, right back into it. I was hit. Perhaps there was some carelessness involved. Perhaps there was a lack of attention being paid. Perhaps it is about my proclivity – or, even, my genetic predisposition – toward an inability to recognize manipulative psychos until I’m beaten about the head, bloodied and near death in a boat, far out at sea, having my personality and persona pillaged and exploited.
Whatever it is. Or was. There is damage. And no insurance. And far more than $1000 in cost.