Recently I was having a conversation with some relatives about horror stories of the automobile variety (what do you mean I have to change the oil? Why doesn’t it come with a warning sticker?) and I immediately thought of my dear friend Megan. Megan not only had a series of very unfortunate cars, but stories about those cars that were unrivaled by anyone else I know. As I was taking this mental journey down memory lane, one particular memory beckoned to me, begging to be shared with the blog world.
So, I did what any respectful friend afraid of retribution would do, I sent Megan a text and asked if she would mind if I wrote about her on my blog. Innocently enough, Megan wrote back that she would be “honored” to be written about on my blog. Perhaps I should have clarified that if it were a glowing tribute, or testament to her fantastic character, I likely wouldn’t have asked for permission. Whoopsy daisy.
I digress. But the memory is just too good to keep to myself.
Some time in early high school, Megan and I were having a deep, philosophical discussion about things that surely were important at the time. As the conversation evolved, I took the opportunity to lament upon my irritation with the gas gauge in my car and how inaccurate the “1/2 full” marker really seemed to be.
“I swear, from empty to half lasts forever, but once it hits halfway, that second half seems to go twice as quick.”
Megan eagerly agreed with my proclamation and said, “I think you must have a hole in the bottom half of your gas tank.”
A Tour of My Parents’ House
2 days ago