Thursday, December 27, 2012

Drive -- No Freakin' Way

   Years ago, I used to drive. I know this might come as a shock to some of those who know me, because I won't drive now and don't own a car. This is not only because of cost, although I really don't feel like taking out a bank loan just to pay for my frigging gas. No, there are other reasons.
   We could talk about the time my car, back when I actually owned a car, started on fire while I was driving  down the middle of the road, forcing me to abandon the flaming, smoking, demon-possessed monstrosity in the middle of the road- much to the disgust of all the people piled up behind me. We could talk about the number of times I've been forced off of the road, once by a mack truck, once by a giggling on-the-fricking-cell-phone idiot of a teenager, once by an elderly man who either couldn't see or just wanted to kill me, but those instances are not the real reason. We could even talk about the time I was a vapid, not so smart 19 years, and didn't lock the passenger door, and so was staring at a crazy meth-head who jumped right into my car at the gas station and was demanding that I start to drive. Thankfully a random stranger saw and came to my rescue (there are good people, there are!!!) We could talk about that, but that is not the real reason. Nope. We are going to talk about a squirrel.
   That'r right, a squirrel. As in, the poor little defenseless squirrel that I ran over one day, way back before my daughter was even born, when I still lived in good old Mississippi. The little brown cutie ran right in front of the huge hulking minivan that I used to drive and I couldn't stop in time. My brakes were never good, and I had to build up to a stop, so I couldn't get the van stopped in time for poor Mr. Squirrel. I swear, even to this day, that as I drove over him, he looked up at me with his little squirrel eyes and I saw the fright on his poor little squirrel face. Oh. My. God.
In memory of you, Mr. Squirrel
   I had slammed on my brakes, but not only did I not stop in time to save him, but I stopped right on top of him! Could this have gotten any worse! What kind of heartless monster was I?! Not only did I kill him, but I parked my friggen' car right on top of him! I cried. And cried. And went home to my rental house, which I rented a room from and shared with three guys; all of whom tried to act like older big brothers with me, but all of whom could not keep a straight face when I burst up into that house in tears and mortified beyond all belief. Oh no. Their concern soon changed to outright gaffaws of mirth as they howled at my and the squirrel's misfortune. Do not expect guys to care that you just killed a rodent, because you will get 0% sympathy. All they will do is taunt you with your grief and laugh to all their friends about their silly chick roommate; completely ignoring the fact that you are now scarred for life and haunted by the memory of terrified squirrel eyes. Rest in peace, Mr. Squirrel. Even if they did not have the heart to mourn you, I did.
   Oh, I've driven since then, and if I ever move to a place where driving is not an option if you want to go anywhere, I'll suck it up, put on my big girl panties, and drive again. But right now, here in Washington where mass transportation is readily available for the few things that are not in walking distance, no. That's a negatory. The Mr. Squirrels of the world are safe. 

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