Fuel

I hate going to the gas station.  This is a fact.

While I realize that I have to feed my car periodically in return for it carrying me places, much like I occasionally pick up food for my mom because she hauled me around like a massive, internal parasite for nine months, getting gas is an ordeal.  As such, I put it off as long as possible. 

(This sometimes causes problems, like the time I avoided it for so long that my car ran out of gas exactly as I rolled into my garage - which, precision aside, was a hassle the next morning.)

Getting gas is mainly an inconvenience.  Not only do I have to factor in the five to ten minutes it'll take into my trip, it interrupts a perfectly good ride.  I don't know about you, but I tend to space out majorly when I drive, sometimes getting so into my thoughts that I talk to myself and make ridiculous faces that have probably caused more than one motorist to swerve when they inadvertently caught sight of me mid-grimace in their rear-view mirror.  The necessity of pulling into a gas station and standing by a pump derails these trains of thought entirely, which I hate.

And my debit card is always rejected.  Always.  So instead of filling my tank in anonymity, I have to trudge into the little Quik-E-Mart or whatever so the suicidally-bored attendant can perform the complex task of swiping my card for me.  They usually give me this reproachful look, like I had the pump outside reject my card on purpose in order to orchestrate this pointless interaction.

Then I have to go back outside and watch the two rows of numbers go up, which is ridiculously stressful.  I keep rooting for the bottom row, even though I know the top row will always win, so I just set myself up for disappointment each and every time.  And I can't just sit in my car and ignore the numbers because I'm irrationally convinced that if I'm not staring unblinkingly at the screen, the machine won't work.  The closer the cost climbs to $25, the more anxious I get.  And when it actually goes past $25 -

"Hey.  HEY.  STOP THAT.  WHAT THE FUCK."

- I get agitated.  I spent $28.54 on gas this morning, and I might as well have eaten a triple cheeseburger for all the good it did for my blood pressure.

Plus, no matter how long I wait after the gas stops flowing, or how vigorously I shake the nozzle, there's always that little bit of gas - which I believe I paid for - that drips on the ground.  It's infuriating.

The only redeeming part of the whole experience is starting my car again and seeing the fuel gauge back at "full."  I get a strange, almost primal satisfaction out of that, and sometimes it can make up for all the hassle.

Just don't drive away with the pump still in your car.  That never ends well.