When I take my car into the mechanic joint where you work in Capo Beach, I want my oil changed. You are the mechanic. That means you are supposed to be changing my oil. It does not mean you are supposed to come inside to try and talk to me. I don't care what color my oil is. I don't care that you topped off my windshield fluid. I don't know what my transmission is, and I don't particularly care that work needs to be done on it at 30,000 miles. Don't stare through the window and smile at me. I don't care if you think I smell good. Don't ask me where I bought my perfume. I am not going to give you my phone number. Just hurry up and change my fucking oil.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/o OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701-7417, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.