“The marshmallow to oat thing ratio is what I’m talking about.”
I drove a ‘93 Nissan Maxima. Formerly. It was the size of Nebraska, weighed the same as Oprah at her heaviest (the second time) and was the absolute love of my life. It was definitely the longest relationship I’ve ever had and probably the most loving. Sure, Nebraska would break down a lot, was louder than that old guy yelling at the movie screen during X-Men III and, was a dead beat so I had to pay for all the repairs. Or, well, my parents had to pay for all the repairs, but when it really came down to it, I loved that car. It took me where I needed to go. Usually, with few exceptions.
One day in April, on my way to Tempe going south on the freeway, I decided to change lanes, thinking the small Pontiac behind me, driven by Uganda’s answer to Paris Hilton, would let Nebraska out in front of her. After all, she should, she had the law on her side.
I went for it and she didn’t stop. She instead sped up to get in front of me before losing control of her car. She seemed surprised at how badly her bold decision had begun to get out of hand as she whizzed by me like a drunken ballerina, traveling the width of the freeway in what I would only ever describe as a “spiral of death” before smashing into my car twice and stopping in the middle of the busy freeway.
The Pontiac (the love of her life), which I later found out had hit not only me, but another car on her tour of the southbound lanes, looked brand new as she stepped out of it, dazed and confused while pointing to me and shouting “How could vu?!”. I managed to get Nebraska to the side of the road and said nothing. I thought I would die when I saw my car. An old fat man stopped his Ford Explorer and came up to me as I had trouble deciding whether to call my mother or 911 first.
“Are you all right?” He asked through my broken window. I was shaky and mad, but my natural tendencies came through and I began to laugh which is what I do whenever I’m insanely stressed right before I burst into tears.
“I’m fine!” I say, and smile as he watches me get out of my car through the passenger seat since the driver’s side door was too smashed to open. He checks my head and body for any wounds, and finds none, which leaves him feeling like a hero, and leaves me feeling cheated. I didn’t even have a scratch.
High way patrol -played by Gina Davis- came, and there were at least thirty witnesses declaring me a bad driver and Uganda “lucky to be alive”. After a little fight with Uganda (“Um, no, like vu hit MEH.”) and a lecture from Officer Davis (“It’s called a ‘blind spot’ because you can’t see it, so you gotta look.”) I of course was charged with everything possible dangerous driving, driving without care, driving whilst performing oral sex and eating (and the other way around), and an unsafe lane change.
I’m between cars at the moment. My Nissan, too far damaged to be fixed, was taken to that big junk yard in the sky, so my mother is allowing me to drive her Buick, which can only be described as yar seeing as how it is eight times larger than the QEII. I always joked that I was secretly an old woman before -enjoying life from my own backyard, making cookies and scrapbooks, being completely celibate (although, technically, that part makes me a rock star now thanks to Rivers Cuomo)- but I find the old woman observation to be even more true as I struggle to see over the dashboard while singing standard tunes, which for some reason, is what I’ve been in the mood for lately. Thanks to the accident, I’m also now terrified of driving and the Buick is a free pass to going 5 under the speed limit without being hated. The Buick symbol on the back of the car is just as good as having the double yellow arrows on the back of a truck as if to say “Go around, I make sudden stops”. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve officially become a loser and I’m not afraid to say it. Because I'm a fun-lovin' loser. I'm almost always awesome (unless you're a drug user, then I'm just "boring", but that is totally your loss. I'm not even kidding because, as I mentioned before, I'm a fun-lovin' loser) and I can almost always do a dead on impersonation of you. But, I am going to tell you that you shouldn't drink as much and to make sure you wear your seatbelt and not to sleep with random people because you don't want to have to take Valtrax for the rest of your life. But you see, I'm just looking out for you. L for love, right?
Anyway, moral of this story; there is no justice. At least I think that was what I was getting at. I seemed to lose track at the end. I’ll be honest, I was just trying to get a blog up here so that you guys didn’t think I was dead.
Quote of the day:
Stefi: Does [having drunk sex] count if you don't remember though? That's kinda like if a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound?
Sandeep: Well, I don’t know. I think it does.
Stefi: You also think office max is a stationary store.
Sandeep: Fuck you.
One day in April, on my way to Tempe going south on the freeway, I decided to change lanes, thinking the small Pontiac behind me, driven by Uganda’s answer to Paris Hilton, would let Nebraska out in front of her. After all, she should, she had the law on her side.
I went for it and she didn’t stop. She instead sped up to get in front of me before losing control of her car. She seemed surprised at how badly her bold decision had begun to get out of hand as she whizzed by me like a drunken ballerina, traveling the width of the freeway in what I would only ever describe as a “spiral of death” before smashing into my car twice and stopping in the middle of the busy freeway.
The Pontiac (the love of her life), which I later found out had hit not only me, but another car on her tour of the southbound lanes, looked brand new as she stepped out of it, dazed and confused while pointing to me and shouting “How could vu?!”. I managed to get Nebraska to the side of the road and said nothing. I thought I would die when I saw my car. An old fat man stopped his Ford Explorer and came up to me as I had trouble deciding whether to call my mother or 911 first.
“Are you all right?” He asked through my broken window. I was shaky and mad, but my natural tendencies came through and I began to laugh which is what I do whenever I’m insanely stressed right before I burst into tears.
“I’m fine!” I say, and smile as he watches me get out of my car through the passenger seat since the driver’s side door was too smashed to open. He checks my head and body for any wounds, and finds none, which leaves him feeling like a hero, and leaves me feeling cheated. I didn’t even have a scratch.
High way patrol -played by Gina Davis- came, and there were at least thirty witnesses declaring me a bad driver and Uganda “lucky to be alive”. After a little fight with Uganda (“Um, no, like vu hit MEH.”) and a lecture from Officer Davis (“It’s called a ‘blind spot’ because you can’t see it, so you gotta look.”) I of course was charged with everything possible dangerous driving, driving without care, driving whilst performing oral sex and eating (and the other way around), and an unsafe lane change.
I’m between cars at the moment. My Nissan, too far damaged to be fixed, was taken to that big junk yard in the sky, so my mother is allowing me to drive her Buick, which can only be described as yar seeing as how it is eight times larger than the QEII. I always joked that I was secretly an old woman before -enjoying life from my own backyard, making cookies and scrapbooks, being completely celibate (although, technically, that part makes me a rock star now thanks to Rivers Cuomo)- but I find the old woman observation to be even more true as I struggle to see over the dashboard while singing standard tunes, which for some reason, is what I’ve been in the mood for lately. Thanks to the accident, I’m also now terrified of driving and the Buick is a free pass to going 5 under the speed limit without being hated. The Buick symbol on the back of the car is just as good as having the double yellow arrows on the back of a truck as if to say “Go around, I make sudden stops”. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve officially become a loser and I’m not afraid to say it. Because I'm a fun-lovin' loser. I'm almost always awesome (unless you're a drug user, then I'm just "boring", but that is totally your loss. I'm not even kidding because, as I mentioned before, I'm a fun-lovin' loser) and I can almost always do a dead on impersonation of you. But, I am going to tell you that you shouldn't drink as much and to make sure you wear your seatbelt and not to sleep with random people because you don't want to have to take Valtrax for the rest of your life. But you see, I'm just looking out for you. L for love, right?
Anyway, moral of this story; there is no justice. At least I think that was what I was getting at. I seemed to lose track at the end. I’ll be honest, I was just trying to get a blog up here so that you guys didn’t think I was dead.
Quote of the day:
Stefi: Does [having drunk sex] count if you don't remember though? That's kinda like if a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound?
Sandeep: Well, I don’t know. I think it does.
Stefi: You also think office max is a stationary store.
Sandeep: Fuck you.
