When I crashed my car against my in law's this afternoon, one of the first things I did after muttering a quiet, "fuck," was think of how I could write this situation down word for word. Is that fucked up? I'd like to think it's a coping mechanism to keep my mind busy as I hurriedly dumped the responsibility on to the next available adult (my father. Hoorah) while I still had the chance to flee the scene of the crime (French lessons are apparently a lot more vital than facing my imminent punishment. I'm not complaining. In fact, if I wasn't only three lessons in I'd express my gratitude in that very language, but alas).
I found other means to get to those lessons (viola), but my reaction was surprisingly slow. I know if this had happened a few months ago I would've been in tears the moment I saw the paint peel from my brother in law's car. Instead, I slammed my feelings away like they were wooden doors used to prevent sunlight from seeping in through windows, and tied them in place.Then, I laughed, because how ridiculous does it sound to say, "I scratched my brother in law's car. He's already awkward around me and now he probably hates my guts. Oh, and by the way, I've probably exchanged two sentences with him since we met because he's as unapproachable as a fucking brick wall." Obviously, I apologized. Like a literal asshole.
I smiled.
I smiled to the man whose car I fucked up. I said, "I'm sorry."
That's it.
I'm not even sure what he replied back with, I was too busy maintaining my "cool."
Should've known it wouldn't last long (I'm weak as hell) because the inevitable tears stung my eyes a mere three hours later.I haven't cried yet (a miracle or a curse?), but the tightness that sits on my chest seems to simply linger there as if waiting for a kick.
The looming question, it seems, is why (or how the heck) did I crash my car? Let's just say it's not important or exciting to even deserve a mention, and you may interpret that as you wish.
