My first fender bender occurred only weeks after I received my driver’s license. Drunk with the anticipation of buying a new Police album I drove the Dart to the store only to discover,
Outlandos D’Amour in hand, that I had forgotten my wallet and had to return home to get it. Peeling out of the parking space I clipped the right side of a green station wagon. I did what any resourceful seventeen year-old girl would do: Reparked on the far end of the mall and phoned Daddy. After all, it would have been too ironic to call the cops.
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