Get Angry

It was at that point that I did something regrettable and threw the remote at the TV. The results were fairly predictable—the remote blocked in two, sending the batteries flying as the bits fell to the floor. Worse, the screen broke, leaving the left forty percent black and leaving the rest interspersed with stripes of pink pixels.

“Oh, fuck,” I commented to myself.

Sealing the nail polish, I went over and collected the pieces of the remote, though it was obviously beyond repair, and I did the only thing I could think of with the TV—I hot the side of the case with my hand in the van hope that “the Russian way” of fixing things would work.

As it turns out, it didn't work, just leaving me with additional pink bars obscuring what was left of Pedro’s face as he attempted to explain that he didn't know Maria had an evil twin, which made two of us, but explained so much of what happened last week.

So, with a sigh, I decided to go to the bike and ride it barefoot while my polish dried and my temper cooled.