Giddy-up (Derby Racers!)

Well! It looks like this lovely, brilliant, October's Friday, I've got bad news and worse news, and I'm not too chuffed about either.

Not to fall completely melodramatic on main, but, ah, woe is me indeed; while I usually look forward to October, with promises of Halloween delights and spider confections, this particular day was the scheduled appointment for the Learner's Permit test. In true Butterscotch fashion, believing one should be prepared for every traffic law known to man before taking it, I'd been studying for months before taking it and had just finished an hour's cramming before the pickup; the questions are somewhat tedious and have no story behind them or little interest, but damned if a Moonglow isn't going to ace the test and spend the rest of the day with a good book and victory tacos. (Yes, I know...I picked the name when I was thirteen.)

Did I fail? Not....exactly.

No! I didn't even get in the door because while my ID, Social Security Card, and two documents of identification were all in order, I'd failed to obtain a form from my school; a digital form I'd already filled out, mind, but had yet to receive the fancy letter in the mail that says "Yes, Butterscotch Moonglow can do her ruddy best to navigate a parking lot."

Now, between the choice to sit fuming over tea at home, or sit fuming over a cubic equation, well, at least the latter gets a bit more done, and it's easier to avoid crying when there's no safe place to do so, so I signed back into class. (That was a treat....explaining to the secretary, then to each teacher, Yes, I signed out to take the permit test, and I got turned away at the door because I didn't get my form.)

Things are difficult enough when you've disappointed your teachers, parents, and friends. Things are moreso when they aren't.

The new learner's permit appointment is November sixth, twelve days before my birthday and just in the cutoff when I can say I'm a little too old to be taking the permit test, but not practically-a-high-school-graduate old. (Granted, some do choose to get their licenses at eighteen, which I do respect; if you chose to, godspeed, but if you didn't, Gottsegne.) Wish me luck, mates.