The year is 2008, and I just left the voting offices. My car was parked across the street from the library in the heart of redneck country. Florida was getting chilly this time of year, so when I entered my Camry, I put the heater on blast. Now, keep in mind I just got my license that summer. So being pretty sure of myself, I didn’t notice I bumped something until this redhead pigtailed vixen tapped my window. “You left a scratch on that truck.”  Fearing the worse, I was about to vomit when it turns out, it actually was just a scratch. “You could probably still get away if you wanted to.” She said. “What? And forget my autograph?” Stupid joke, I know, but I was amazed that she even laughed. This girl was too pretty to just be randomly standing around. But I shrugged it off and made conversation. We stood there for maybe half an hour, talking politics and Supertramp what made a Caprese sandwich good anyway. But it was getting late, and I was about to duck out when she asked for my phone number. Heart racing, I gave her all the deets; my digits, where I lived and even my house phone in case my data runs out. Then we said our goodbyes and I pulled outta there. The next day, I get a text from an unknown number. “Hey, Can I come over?” Without question, I replied to her “Sure!” Already, at 18, I was going to lose my virginity—perfect! I had to make up some excuse for my Mom to leave the house. So when she left for the supermarket, I primmed myself up, did a couple extra push-ups and snuck on some of my older brother’s cologne. Ding-dong. I open the door with a wide smile… Turned around by the sight of a man. He was not much older than me, but wore a fisher’s cap and a modest tank top. “Are you a Disc Jockey?” He asked in a grim twang. I reply, “No… Why?” Swooping his arm as if he was Hercules, he directed my attention to the drive-way. “Because you scratched more than some jams.” I gulped. “You scratched my Ram.” Sure enough, the same car from yesterday was tapping it’s foot for an explanation. And who should be inside blasting “The Logical Song” but the Wendy’s girl herself. She smiled and twinkled her fingers in a hello at me. Or so I thought, untill my Mom appeared from behind, checkbook in hand. My checkbook. I had to do it twice before actually handing the manly behemoth a proper $1,000, due to the cold sweats. Before he left, he punched me a black-eye. When I protested, Mom said that was my own fault. “Don’t flirt with another man’s girl, Son.” To this day, I will pass any number of open spaces, just so I’m not anywhere near a truck.