Writing Assignment: Do Over

Okay, so maybe I’ve learned my lesson after yesterday’s shenanigans. Evidently people aren’t as evolved as I had hoped. Basically, we’re still afraid to talk about S-E-X and everything that entails. But… I get it. I wouldn’t really want to air my dirty bedsheets in public, so why should I expect you all to?

The comments I got were GREAT. I just wish there more of them. So I’m gonna give you another chance. Tonight we’re going to re-do the writing assignment, but I’m going to tone it down it a bit.

Tonight I want you to tell me about the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. And to get the ball rolling, I’ll start.

When I was in high school, I was dating this guy who was a year ahead of me grade-wise, but a thousand years behind me emotionally. He was one of those incredibly brilliant people who had a hard time bringing what was going on in his head down to a level the rest of us mere mortals could understand. That’s part of the reason I was so attracted to him in the first place.

Well, that and he played a guitar. And for a teenage boy, the ability to play a guitar is like coating one’s self in sugar water before stepping into a tent full of female mosquitoes. A guitar makes panties drop. (Not that mine did, MOM.)

Besides being digitally gifted (heh!), my boyfriend was also mechanically inclined. In the early part of our relationship, he was busy restoring a sporty little rear engine car that he loved almost more than he loved me.

And I hated it.

That thing–that 1986 Fiero he put so much work into–was a fucking death trap. A shoebox on wheels, if you will, and just as fragile. Every time a bug ran into the windshield, it felt like the whole car was going to explode. I had abandoned Catholicism long ago, but I caught myself doing the sign of the cross and saying a quick prayer  to Saint Christopher every time he asked me if I wanted a ride down to the corner movie store.

So one sunny spring afternoon, he has just completed some kind of maintenance on the thing (hell if I know WHAT it was) that made the car faster and stronger and MORE MANLY. Or whatever. He was proud of it, and he wanted to show his prowess off. So he took me up to the top of the highest hill in the area. When we got to the top, he turned the car around, and pointed down the very curvy, very dangerous, very fucking scary road. Then he told me to hold on.

He let the clutch out and slammed the car into gear and y’all, we FLEW down the hill.

I thought I was going to die.

He took the switchback turns at 40 miles per hour, tires barely gripping the road. The previous winter had left the road dotted with pot holes and areas where the shoulder had completely washed away, but he didn’t try to avoid them. He just threw his head back and cackled evilly as I clawed the dash, very nearly leaving gouge marks where my nails had dug in.

“Slow down, you rat bastard!” I screamed, when we nearly fishtailed off the road.  “If you kill me, I swear to GOD and all that is HOLY that I’ll haunt you as the ghost of mother fucking IMPOTENCE.”

When we finally got the bottom of the hill, I’m pretty sure my blood pressure was nearing stroke range. My heart was pounding a merry tattoo, and my eyes were bulging out of my head like a demented cod fish. I wanted to kill him. But he was still laughing like it had all been a great joke.

I didn’t speak to him for days after that. And he didn’t even call to apologize, because I threatened to tell my dad what had happened.

Though that boy-man-child may have had the emotional range of a rock, he was smart enough not to chance angering an Italian man with access to multiple fire arms and several acres where no one would ever find a body.

*****

Now it’s your turn, meine Leiben. Tell me stories so ghastly your own mother’s hair would curl if she ever found out.

And if you’re reading this, Mom, um… don’t tell Dad. Mmmkay?

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About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
This entry was posted in Internetland, Stories, The Month of Blogging Dangerously and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Writing Assignment: Do Over

  1. Sarah says:

    I don’t think I’ve ever done anything SERIOUSLY stupid that’s like.. kinda funny to talk about now. lol But I’ll tell you about MY first boyfriend…

    He was a pretty nerdy dude, like your boy… very intelligent. HE was 3 years older and totally girl clueless at 17 years old. Our first valentine’s day he bought me…

    a Turbo Pascal programming language book. It was about 70 dollars and REALLY big and HEAVY so he thought he had done superb!! I think I may have cried a little.

  2. Pingback: FYI, prodigies don’t eat their own mucus | Three Ring Mom

  3. Brittney says:

    I’ve done several dumb things but I’d say the dumbest is a tie. First, there was the time I decided to date a 21 year old from the internet when I was 14 or 15, because SURELY his intentions are pure when he tells me that he loves me, right? 😛 What did I know? I was a homeschooled kid. I never really liked the guy, but I liked the attention. We met a few times, just kind of talked. I let him kiss me a time or two, but being the sweet, super religious, little homeschooler that I was, I never let him do anything else, despite his efforts. One day, my dad found our AIM conversations on the computer, most of which consisted of the guy begging for things I wouldn’t give him. I didn’t know the conversations were automatically being saved. Of course, my dad just about had a stroke and demanded that I tell him everything I knew about the guy (which I didn’t, which I’m sure saved the dude some time in the police station, if not jail). I told the guy what my dad found and then he never talked to me again. Hmm…imagine that. Looking back on it now, he could have totally been one of those guys like on To Catch a Predator. I’m sure he probably still lives around here, and sometimes I still wonder if at (what would now be) 30ish years old, he still tries to get with underage girls. So, yeah…dumb for talking to him, dumber to meet him.

    The 2nd would be the time I decided to party with my friend and a handful of guys I didn’t know (Red has probably told you this story). Something had to have been slipped into my drink, because I went into sudden, throwing-up-foam-and-unable-to-move-myself-across-the-room drunk. In my attempts to redial the boyfriend and Red to see how much longer it would be before they arrived to get me, I accidentally drunk dialed my dad (who I might mention does prison ministry once a month and is just about the godliest man you could meet next to Jesus himself) at 3:30 in the morning. Even though I was of age, he had no idea that I drank. At all. That went about as smooth as you think it went. 🙂

    • Chelsie says:

      Wow. Just… Wow. If the first story had happened to me, that man would not have lived to tell the story. My dad would have hunted him down, killed him, then dragged the pedo’s carcass to the police station. And no one would would have made a big deal about it. Because this this is the South, and there are just certain things you don’t do.

      I’ve heard the story about your drink getting drugged before. The night it happened, even. Because Red was that freaked out. To this day, every time your boyfriend tells it, he gets kind of twitchy and his fists ball up like he’s about to hit someone.

  4. Rachael says:

    I have a pretty good one: once when I was in high school (naturally young and reckless) I somehow became involved in this rag-tag group of heavy drug abusers. I never partook, always imagining myself as some “investigative reporter” understanding counter culture….Anyways, while there were plenty of dangerous times with this crew, the worst was when I was told I was being given a ride to a friends house by this girl “Sam”. Sam, as I did not know at the time, was only 14, and had been drinking since the early morning (it was around five). As soon as I felt the car move, I realized the incredible danger I was in, especially as she started taking pills whilst holding the wheel with one hand. I could feel sweat pouring down my face as we drove through the busiest section in town and as she casually passed red lights and other cars with no regard, even at times laughing. I tried to calmly tell her to pull over, when she starting crying and saying that she was “sorry”, without ever taking her foot off the pedal or even looking at the road for what seemed like minutes at a time. When we finally got to the destination I was so shocked that I actually didn’t even ride in a car for several months after, excluding public transportation; and I cut most of my ties to that “fun bunch”. Everyone has their wild days, but I think I’ll stick to the safer side of underage-drunken-pillhead driving.

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