Learning to drive is a rite of passage that almost every teenager anticipates eagerly—most can’t wait to steal the car keys out of mom’s purse so that he or she can pick up a smattering of friends and take them out to Chick-Fil-A for lunch and awkwardly gawk at their crushes. I say “most” teenagers look forward to this because, as usual, I was the exception to the rule. I think it’s because I’m just generally ornery.
Doctors perform surgery of all kinds every day, and for a variety of reasons. Usually, surgery is prescribed when things go wrong inside your body due to diseases or accidents. Other times, you may need to have something chopped off like a growth or a foreskin. There’s also the possibility that you are among those of us who are born with some kind of freakish deformity that needs to be corrected surgically after years of ridicule and hateful jeering; perhaps, for example, you have to have your golf ball-sized boob fixed so it’s the same size as your grapefruit-sized boob (I wouldn’t go the other way around–“big naturals” seem to be in right now).
I run into a lot of bizarre and dumb situations—more than my share, in fact. At first I used to think, “Hmm, maybe I’m hallucinating. Perhaps I hit my head on the cinderblock wall adjacent to my rickety school-provided bed.” But bizarre, stupid, weird and oft-scary things keep happening around me at such a frenetic pace that I either have severe head trauma that is causing me to constantly hallucinate, or I have some kind of “unlucky dummy field” surrounding me.