Today I took my car to a Midas in Queens to get a flat tire looked at.

The verdict? Unfixable. Also? I need three out of four tires replaced as the threads are nearly bald and gone. The grand total? $245. (Read: All my Christmas shopping money).

Cue: Having an hysterical crying fit in the lobby of the Midas as the front desk manager looks on, completely ghetto, completely trying to take me out on a date.

“Why you cryin’? You so beautiful.”

Thanks. Sniffle. Sob. Have to…get my tires..fixed…lots of money, fight with my mother…sniffle. Hiccup.

“You wanna go smoke a joint?”

Excuse me?

“You wanna go smoke a joint and feel better?”

Um. No thanks.

“You have kids?”

What?

“I have a daughter. She’s 12.”

Oh.

“I take you out to lunch, Laura. You call me, okay?”

Can you just fix my tires?

“Oh. Sure, beautiful.”

Seriously? Why does this happen to me?

No. Seriously.