The Nationwide insurance lady is coming over in a bit to give me money. Yes, this stupid saga is finally getting resolved (knock wood). Good old Nina B. from Spotslvania V. finally got her ass in gear and filed her accident claim with her insurance company (the aforementioned Nationwide) at the end of March. That’s a full three months after the accident, if you’re playing along at home. You might also recall that I had to go ahead and buy a car in January, you know, because I have a job and enjoy being independently mobile. So this thing has been plodding along at a snail’s pace (including a laughably low offer from Nationwide the first time around: $350, hahahahahahahahaha), and I just want it to be over with. For good.
I don’t know why the insurance lady has to come to my place. I asked her where her office was and she replied that she could just come out to my location. Now it’s like I’m preparing for the world’s earliest and most boring date. Like, is she going to want to come in or can we just get this over with in the parking lot? Do I even need to put the pillows back on the couch, or hide the three hundred beer bottles scattered around the apartment (none of which are mine, but still make me look like a drunk)? Should I clean the litter box and sweep? Do I need to put on pants, for God’s sake? This is a lot of trouble for a check that could have just been mailed to me. But then, I suppose, she couldn’t make it sufficiently uncomfortable for me to gloss over the fine print when I sign whatever release she shoves at me.
Trust me, lady, I would sign anything at 9 in the morning as long as it got me one step closer to going back to bed.