I’m the dumbest person I know.
Sometimes I can’t believe I’m allowed to live unsupervised in an apartment with a stove and sharp objects, and I’m consistently amazed I haven’t accidentally starved to death yet. A couple of weeks ago, I was pretty sure I was going to jail for being stupid, and frankly I wasn’t surprised. It’s the kind of thing I’d expect from a boob like myself.
It started when I forgot about the back half of my car. It’s easy to do when you’re an imbecile.
Reasons I Forgot About the Back of My Car
- I conduct my business in the front half of the vehicle. There’s no reason for me to think about anything that happens behind the driver’s seat. Since my legs are short (and also because I’m an idiot), that means I never give 70% of my car a single thought.
- I once had a car named Ruby, and she was the love of my life– the most beautiful thing on this cold, dark planet. Great love stories always end in tragedy, though, and Ruby and I were no exception. I left her (because I’m an idiot), and now I have Beryl. I respect Beryl, but I’m not in love with her. I never look at her back half because it brings up memories of Ruby’s curves.
- Shortly after Beryl and I became an item, my job required carting a group of photogenic elderly people around on short notice. The backseat was buried under Taco Bell wrappers, campaign signs, and heaven knows what else (because I am an idiot with poor nutrition). I didn’t have anywhere to dump it out, so I scooped it up embarrassedly and threw it in my trunk while the attractive old people judged me. I cleaned it out later, but the damage was done. I never use the trunk because I associate it with deep feelings of shame.
One evening in March, a friend and I decided to make an ice cream run. Ice cream is not even on my Top 10 Best Desserts list, but we desperately needed to get out of the apartment. I had just finished elucidating on what a safe driver I am when a siren started behind us.
I started running through a list of things I could have possibly done wrong. We’d watched Breaking Bad all day, and my neurotic brain instantly decided we were being pulled over for meth. I’d clearly been driving meth-ily. When the officer came to the window, I did my best impression of a person who doesn’t do meth. It should have come naturally because, you know, I don’t, but I was suddenly hyper-aware of how suspicious every single one of my nervous tics looked.
Fortunately, he had not pulled me over for methamphetamine. Unfortunately, while I was busy ignoring parts of my vehicle, some of those parts were expiring. When I say my license plates were old, I don’t mean they were a week or two past the renewal date. I had successfully avoided looking at them for more than six months. The ticket was close to $100, but I was just grateful no one thought I was on meth. We drove back to the apartment, ice cream-less and sad.
I sent my check in a week later to the wrong court, so it was returned. I put it in a file labeled “IMPORTANT THINGS”, made a mental note to send it again ASAP, and immediately forgot about it. Then two weeks ago during Trivia Night at a bar, my friend Ashley said, “Did you pay your traffic ticket? I forgot about mine, and a friend at the court said there was a warrant for my arrest. I bet you have one!”
“Ha!” I said like a person who regularly has warrants issued for her arrest. “I don’t care. That’s my fifth warrant this week.”
I did care, though. Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest child, or maybe because I’m a civilized human, but I like rules. If I lived in a totalitarian country, I’d be the jerk who’s always bringing up how efficient and well-organized the government is. I was useless for the rest of Trivia Night. I kept wanting to yell, “HERE’S A FUN FACT: I’M GOING TO JAIL.”
I spent the next two days desperately calling the court, but I kept getting away messages. With every unanswered call, I became more convinced I would be arrested.
Things You Do When the Cops Are Coming for You
- You think about the best way to explain your arrest during future job interviews.
- You start looking at your friends differently, trying to gauge if they’d be a good choice for your phone call.
- You obsessively Google things like “How much will my bail be?”, and “How to tell your grandma you’re in jail”, and “Which prison gangs are the most fun?”
- You consider trying to escape once you’re inside, just to say you did it.
- You wonder if you could shank someone if it came down to it. You decide you probably could. You start to worry less about jail because you think it will teach you about yourself. You start to look forward to it a little.
After three days, someone finally answered the phone.
“Hello,” I said. “I forgot to pay a traffic ticket and I’m dumb and I don’t want to go to jail because I really like rules and I’m generally well-behaved and I DON’T EVEN LIKE ICE CREAM THAT MUCH SO I DON’T KNOW WHY I WAS OUT THAT NIGHT IN THE FIRST PLACE!”
“Hmm,” the lady on the other end said. “That ticket was dismissed. The officer didn’t submit it before the court date.”
“Oh,” I said. “So… no one wants to arrest me?”
“No,” she said. “You don’t even have to pay it. You’re lucky!”
“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky.” Then I hung up and went back inside to my office and my boring, boring life.
I think I’m going crazy.
As far as I can tell, there are two kinds of crazy: the fun, zany kind, like a mad scientist in a kid’s show, and the oh-my-God-I-think-I’m-legitimately-losing-it kind of crazy. This is that second one. A tiny part of my brain, way in the back, is constantly yelling, “What are you doooooooiiiiinnnnnng?!” in slow motion. The other 95% of my brain is shouting back, “I HAVE NO IDEA BUT IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD PLAN AT THE TIME DO YOU LIKE PEANUTS I SURE DO HEY LOOK A NARWHAL!” Only it’s a really mean narwhal and everyone around you has a peanut allergy, so it’s not at all like being at the circus. The same part of my brain thought this paragraph would make sense. Let’s move on.
It may have come to your attention that I can be a little neurotic. I like to think that it’s the charming kind of neurotic, sort of like Woody Allen but with less “married to my adopted daughter”, which obviously would never happen because a) it’s creepy and b) I still have commitment issues.
Everyday Things That Are The Worst
1. Grocery bags that break at really bad moments
2. When you wake up in the morning with bug bites you didn’t have when you went to bed
3. Other people looking at your forgotten Photo Booth pictures
As verbose as some of my blog posts can be, I’m a pretty quiet person in real life.
I come from a family of bookish nerds, so I’m introverted by nature and nurture, which probably has something to do with it. Another piece of it is self-preservation, I guess. Years of observation have taught me that sometimes stupid things come out of people’s mouths. I still say the darndest things, so it’s not like silence makes me immune, but it definitely cuts down on the sheer volume of dumb things I could be saying.