It's The Pedal On The Left.

So I had been planning to post about embarrassing childhood moments, but then I waited too long and on Sunday I was driving and ended up giving a police report in front of my smashed car and when I was taking pictures of the evidence with my phone I accidentally deleted all the old pictures that were meant for the embarrassing post. So here we are.

Guess sharing those marching band pictures will just have to wait.

Instead I'll share what happened broken out into handy bullet points. Because apparently utilizing those handy little dots are my favorite way to tell a story on this little blog.

• I was driving.
• Some dude was driving, too.
  
• At the same time that we were driving, the congregation of Greater Christ Temple Church were leaving their Sunday service.
• The dude was turning left in front of said church but neglected to stop at the clearly marked sign intended to prevent what was about to happen.
• I noticed his neglect and in the 2 seconds allowed for my reaction I laid on my horn and slammed on the brakes.
  
• Apparently his brake hitting skills were missing entirely, because he smashed into the front passenger side of my car.
• As I pulled over and got out, the dude DROVE OFF.
• I ran down the street chasing the dude hollering for him to use one more chance to prove he knows which pedal will stop the car from motion.
• Three elderly gentlemen from the church follow me, their Sunday suits prohibiting their speed, but only slightly.
• The other people standing around began hollering, too.
  
• I wonder if any of them were thinking about how to write about the ridiculousness they were watching on their blogs.
  
• He finally stops.
  
• His child gets out of the car crying.
  
• He begins to yell at her to be quiet.
• Then he begins to yell at me.
  
• I tell him he should have stopped.
• He tells me he did.
  
• I tell him that's clearly not the case, since now both of our cars are on the side of the road.
  
• He insists, once again, that he stopped.
• He then ignores me and his hysterical child and gets on his cell phone.
• I call the police.
• The three gentlemen advise that I should take pictures of the scene. They let me know that this is good advice because they "saw it on one of them cable po-lice shows."
  
• I do as I'm told. Who am I to argue with the cable?
• Speak of the po-lice, they show up in record time.
  
• The officer's name is P. Junkmann, Jr.
• I do not laugh at this.
  
• Ironically funny things are usually best kept to yourself at the scene of an accident.
• The witnesses give their statements, all attesting to the fact that I am the victim.
• While this is happening, a young woman arrives at the scene.
• She is clearly a friend of the dude who hit me.
• She was not there when it happened, I know this because I have pictures.
  
• She begins yelling that "that white b**ch was FLYING down the street and she hit him!" while pointing at me.
• Everyone looks at her.
• No one responds.
• The officer ignores her and continues taking the witness statements.
• More time goes by.
• My dad arrives.
  
• He's fantastically calm and collected during crisis.
• That's why I always call him.
• Well, that and he's the policy holder on my insurance.
• Which reminds me, I'm pretty sure I should have found my own insurance when I turned 25. Last year.
  
• Whoops.

Anyway, the rest of the scene unfolded rather uneventfully. The dude was unable to provide any insurance information, the car did not belong to him, and there was no registration. The officer gave him a ticket and called a wrecker for my car. It was towed to the body shop and I was on my way, shaken but mostly just annoyed. I had just saved up some money for pretty dresses and now its' all going to my deductible!