I’d love to tell you about a spectacular, fiery crash. One that involves me, high on ephedrine and pumped fulla cocaine. Barreling down the road at 200 miles per hour. Screaming my mother’s name while I plow into a bus full of underprivileged and mildly retarded children from the local church who don’t know that they’re on a one way trip to see Jesus. But I can’t.

I’d love to tell you about the time I was getting busy in the back seat with Mary Jane Rottencrotch. Feeling her breath, hot on my neck, as she moaned into my ear. The whole car smelling of sex and hormones. Glancing over and noticing that the windows have steamed up and that the only heat we’re gonna have tonight is the heat we’re about to generate. But I can’t.

I’d love to tell you the time I was in high school, hopped up on goofballs with some of the best friends I ever had. Fishtailing down back roads, trying not to spill our beer and screaming the words to “Running with the Devil” into the cold October air. One of the headlights doesn’t work and none of us are wearing our seatbelts, but we’re seventeen and invincible and there’s nothing that’s gonna slow us down tonight. But I can’t.

You see, I’m not a car guy. I can’t tell you makes and models (with the exception of the 1967 Chevy Impala, which is the auto equivalent of the sexiest woman you’ve ever seen. That car drips sex, runs offa love juice and can make me hard at fifty yards.), or how to make the engine purr just right (something to do with the carburetor ?). No one I knew in high school had a car (we were in Germany and no one was old enough to drive) and I never made out in the back of anything with anyone. Hell, I’ve only been in one accident and even that’s not that exciting, unless you count being sandwiched between two old men and their incredibly giant cars, as exciting. I can’t tell you the last time I even popped the hood of my car or kicked the tires. All I know is that when I get in it starts and when it doesn’t, I walk over to the mechanic around the corner.

So, instead of telling you about my best times in a car (because really, I don’t have any), I want you to tell me about yours. --finn

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