This Fucking Gal
The gal doing a curbside catch-up with hazards on for 28 minutes
The flashers are blinking, the lane is blocked, and she is leaning into somebody else's passenger window for the longest neighborhood debrief since recorded time.
She did not park. She soft-launched a traffic problem.
The gal doing a curbside catch-up with hazards on for 28 minutes. She did not park. She soft-launched a traffic problem.
The flashers are blinking, the lane is blocked, and she is leaning into somebody else's passenger window for the longest neighborhood debrief since recorded time.
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This Fucking Gal
The flashers are blinking, the lane is blocked, and she is leaning into somebody else's passenger window for the longest neighborhood debrief since recorded time.
Keep going
Same species, different habitat.
A moving petting-zoo barricade with zero passing lane.
This fucking gal turned the whole sidewalk into a four-dog parade route.
Leashes cross like power lines, the dogs drift wherever vibes take them, and every pedestrian is expected to step into the street and thank her for the enrichment opportunity.
Hazards on. Entitlement louder.
This fucking gal thinks hazard lights turn the pickup lane into private valet.
She leaves the SUV diagonally in the fire lane, pops on the hazards, and disappears inside like blinking lights transformed illegal parking into concierge service.
A water bottle on each one, like little tiny flags of occupation.
This fucking gal has occupied three machines with one towel and a dream.
She bounces between stations every seven minutes and gets offended if you touch the one with the Stanley cup on it because apparently that means reserved.