The year was 2004. I was in a special kind of hell we’ll refer to as high school. And the flames were extra hot at this particular moment.
My then girlfriend was rushing around her house frantically trying to find her name tag for work. I needed to drop her off at work in 10 minutes, which was fine, except we were roughly 25 minutes away. And being late would also have been fine, except she was on her third “last” warning.
Suddenly, just as despair was setting in, she found the god forsaken name tag. We were out the door, hood sliding our way into my Dad’s 1998 Chevrolet Silverado Z-71. Then, two minutes into the race, she shrieks, “I forgot my f**king phone!”