Not to Brag

but gas station attendants totally love me.

Take today, for instance. Thomas and I went in to a small mom-and-pop style gas station/convenience store halfway between work and home. We wanted to exchange our propane tank.

Gas station attendant: What does your shirt mean?

(My shirt--gift from bff Kasey--says, "Note to self: I'm rad").

Me: I'm rad? It means I'm cool.

Gas station attendant, apropos of nothing, to Thomas: You're lucky man. You're with the cutest girl in town.


Now, before I get too full of myself, this same man accidentally charged me for 300 dollars worth of gas a few months ago. There's no way to pay at the pump there, so I went in to charge $15 dollars to my debit card before pumping. The man ran my card and accidentally typed in $150 dollars. He told me of his mistake and asked if I would like the change in cash. I about fainted and told him I didn't have $150 in my account, so he told me he would quick reverse the charges.

And accidentally charged me $150 again.

It was a huge ordeal; the bank wouldn't forgive the overages and told me I'd have to ask him to pay them...blah, blah, blah; the upshot is, he probably still feels like he has to be nice to me. But it was still nice.

However, it put me in the mind of a few years ago. I wasn't, shall we say, having the best luck with men and this was probably due to the fact that I was drinking my fair share of beer and theirs too. But in any case, near my house there was a Shell station manned by a lovely, if somewhat mouse faced, man named Ralph who took a shine to my drunk ass self. On the day he finally got up the nerve to ask me out (which he did in a very sweet and bumbling way), he was beat to the punch by a homeless guy outside of Lula's. Yep, that's right. I was asked out by a homeless man and a gas station attendant in the same day.

People love me, I'm telling you.