Saturday November 29th, 2003
Car Crash
Nearing the end of my hour commute home from work, I pulled on to the Highland exit thinking of what I should do tonight. As I was debating whether or not I should go to a bar or call up Dan and see what he wants to do, it hit me. A white Honda civic to be exact. I was hit from behind and suddenly found myself being thrust even faster into the car in front of me, which also seemed to have slammed on its breaks. Driving a soda can on wheels I expected the worst. I'd like to say something cliché happened, like my life flashing before my eyes, but something tells me that if that happened and I some how survived the impending accident I'd end up killing myself anyway. Instead, I immediately thought about all the things I had left undone. I never found those last four secret packages on grand theft auto 3. I never got that comedic tattoo of the deathstar on my ass. I never tried the domino's Philly cheese steak pizza, and I never went on a date with a suicide girl (let alone saw one in person). Somewhere between comedic pizza commercials and naked goth chicks I hit a Toyota corolla at about 20 miles an hour. My car came to a screeching halt. I took off my seat belt and opened my car door in just enough time to see the white Honda Civic that hit me speed off from the scene of the accident.
I went to check on the other motorist to make sure they were alright. Great, would it be a grandmother with shot nerves and a broken collar bone or a nymphomaniac underwear model who really wants to make sure I'm feeling my best. Turns out it was neither. The gentleman I hit seemed to be in his late forties and dressed like a Ross ad. From his behavior I wouldn't be surprised if he had just finished a bad day of work at no particular store in a local mall. We exchanged insurance information and went our separate ways.
My car seemed to be in working order so I drove home wondering if I should chance the Wendy's drive thru. I decided it'd be better to walk to Wendy's since I knew I could use the exercise and I wouldn't be making it to the gym with my busted car. (Here's a high school math problem for you: If the amount of motivation I have is slightly less than the distance between my apartment and the gym, how long will it be before my fat ass gets off the couch and goes to the gym? Answer: When my car gets fixed.)
