mrginger

Drinking and driving used to be so much fun. Even after I had two cousins die in my sixteenth year I was still unafraid. And as my experience grew ever since, I came to the realization of what a tremendous driver I am. Really terrific. Even with the Delicious poison testing my liver, my motor skills could not fail. Nothing but straight A's.

Until Sunday night. Fuckers. The restaurant had its annual Holiday Party. I remember looking around and seeing that almost every woman in the room with her boyfriend or husband or baby daddy and thinking, " Booze is more dependable." I was right. Scotch proved it to me. Of course my decision to sing "Born to be Wild" on the karaoke mic got me a few free drinks besides. How couldn't I feel enthused? And if the afterparty would have me I would not refuse its love.

7miles to go wouldn't be so bad. I'd traveled farther. Matbe though, I should have taken the icy night into account. Or perhaps my low front left wheel. Or maybe driving to fast after six or something Glenlivetts.

That left turn had the lexus sliding onto the right sidewalk, which wasn't a sidewalk at all, but a wooden planter box. I destroyed that before narrowly avoiding a telephone pole and demolishing my front end suspension on a high concrete curb. (Damn! I was going to get a tune up this week!) That gay ass bush stood in front of me with the most smug expression ever. I had to hit it. I didn't really want to but fate was whispering in my ear. After the bush I steered with all my might back to the road, not realizing the embankment. My car rolled a quarter turn onto the driver's side in about twenty minutes. Finally, I opened my sunroof and crawled out to dust my shoulders off. Not a scratch.

When the popo arrived I was trying to push my car back onto its wheels. I slept a total of five minutes in the pokey that night.

Fuck.