This one sadly excludes my New Jersey brethren. And, I suppose, my Oregon thugs. I see you! (Although, not really, but you gangsters still hold it down.)
While we’re sitting comfortably in our car, not having to get out in the cold weather or do a damn thing, the rest of you fucking losers have to pump your own gas, like peasants.
However, in what can only be figured as cosmic payback for not having the amazing fortune of living in Jersey or Oregon, you do get to experience this feeling every so often.
I went to school in Syracuse, so for a portion of my life, I pumped my own gas. Now, obviously, in this day and age wherein credit cards are used so frequently, the thrill of this perfect pump is limited. Hell, if this post was written in 1997, it may have been a top 50 feeling.
Still, there is something to be said for the satisfaction of landing RIGHT on the whole number. Seeing the three zeroes in your total, knowing you landed right on it. There’s no real losers here, but there certainly are winners.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Being from New Jersey and getting gas outside of it for the first time in a while, you sit in your car when you get to the station for a good 2-3 minutes before you realize—no one is coming to help you.