This is the second time that I know of that my gas tank's been siphoned. The first time, I was willing to believe I had remembered it wrong, that perhaps I hadn't left myself with a full tank of gas. Maybe I hadn't gotten to filling it, although why I had left it on E is beyond me. This time, however, I knew that was crap. I checked to see if I had a fuel line leak -- nope. And gas leaks leave a tell-tale stain on asphalt even when it's evaporated. Nope, the high price of gas really does have people going around stealing gasoline. Now that's just pathetic. And the pickup doesn't have the locking gas cover that the Prelude did, so I had to spend quite a bit of time looking for a locking gas cap today. I have a feeling they'll be stocking more of those in more stores in the future...
I seemed to have missed much of the LJ drama on this Open Boob Project thingy. However, once it was explained to me, I believe I feel much the same way about it that I feel about most other things. "Don't like it? Don't do it." I assure you, if you are welcome to my boobs, you will know. And if some self-entitled little fuck feels the need to help himself to the tactile sensation of my body parts without my consent, whatever body parts they may be, I feel entirely justified in wiping the mat with his or her body parts -- and psyche -- to boot. I learned this neat trick when I was a Congressional intern that served me really well later in my political career: a steel-shanked 5" high heel can break bones in a man's instep with only the weight of an average-sized woman applied in the right place. Get groped? Just lean in, you don't even have to stamp, just shift all your weight, and you can even look wide-eyed and say "Oh! Sorry! I must have bumped you" or whatever lame excuse they just used on you.
So, to recap: my gas, my boobs, not urs. What is up with the world? Wasn't this covered in kindergarten?
