Bobby-my-future-husband-Brackins

So I'm at school, doing what a girl needs to do (GED prep) and what not... Suddenly my phone goes *BLINGBLING* and I have a new text from my boss. He tells me that the Love Of My American Life (L.O.M.A.L) is playing tonight in San Francisco. Do I want to go? DO I WANT TO GO? Man, this is destiny. (To bad I haven't planned my wedding gown, or what our future childrens names are going to be, or even where we should have our country house! I'll just have to work it out. I can manage. I am a grown woman.)

What feels like a million hours later, boss calls me again and says he's coming to pick me up. We go there. I spot the L.O.M.A.L Bobby Brackins and snap some pictures. Then it's time to whoopsie-doodle (go home). But nooooo.... boss is going crazy with some retarded girl in the bar. One second I feel like a tail and the other second I feel as if a child just threw up all over my face (though that might have something to do with watching my boss licking the tequila salt off of Retard Girl's chest).

When we get back to his car, we notice that one of the backdoor windows are busted. This night just became really expensive. (Mrs. Brackins? Sara Brackins? Mrs. Bobby Brackins? Sara Hollstrom-Brackins? Mrs. Sara Brackins....?) Or did it....