Stay off the road. No, seriously.

I always thought I was pretty much a good driver. I mean, one time I clipped a 'yard sale' sign while turning into my subdivision, and sure, the 1985 Dodge van I drive doesn't exactly fit through the drive-up lane at the bank, but at least I've never killed anyone.

And honestly, things were going really good until this week. Really good is relative, I suppose. I only drive two places most of the time, and both of them are places that I work. I don't really have the time or the desire to go anywhere else. I mean, I have a fairly extensive video collection at home, plus an assload of homework this year, so...

Anyway, it all started last Sunday morning, when, after a late breakfast and a mini-Friends DVD marathon, I headed off to make pizzas and really earn my $6.45 an hour.

So I was coming up on this intersection, and I was pretty much convinced that if I kicked it up to 55, I could make the light. As I got a little bit closer, I realized I kind of couldn't, so I tapped the brakes, but the brakes decided they were no longer my friend.

I eventually screeched to a stop midway through the intersection, and of course, by this time, the light on my side was red. I decided the best thing for me to do was to back up and pretend like nothing happened, and the occupants of the white Miata that represented 'oncoming traffic' pretended to be horrified that I had put them in harm's way as well. Nonetheless, the bastards tenetively puttered through the intersection and went on their merry little way while I recovered from my coronary.

So that incident wasn't necessarily my fault, because I don't control whether or not the brakes fail. On the other hand (because the responsible faction is totally going to email me to complain), if I hadn't been 'speeding,' things would've been o-tay. Accept it, move on. I did.

Anyway, moving on to Thursday, during which I stressed about how poorly I had done on my Spanish test that morning, how poorly I would inevitably do on my Advanced Math test the following morning, how I would possibly teach the staff of the school paper how to write a halfway decent editorial or opinion piece, and how the hell my AP Government group would get our essay finished and ready for presentation by Monday, as well as the general quittingness of my fellow fast food employees. So I was docking 'the boat' in the garage and trying to pull up just far enough so that the garage door would close, but not so far that I would end up in the kitchen.

As it turned out, I ended up closer to the latter than the former. There is sort of a hole in the back wall of the garage, which is unfortunate, but there's really not a whole lot I can do until I can find the time to squeeze the Drywalling class into my schedule. And it's not even a big hole. It's a rather small hole, in all actuality. But it's a hole, so...you know. Whatever.

The Princess is making book on how long before my parents kill me. My money's on my dying in a fiery crash, though.

Fine, so the brakes are crappy. And there's a hole in the wall. My brother Dumber kicked a hole in the wall of the Days Inn in College Station, Texas, so holes aren't exactly uncommon at our house. But enough about the holes.

Fast forward to Saturday morning. I woke up late, so I showered, dressed, had half a Mr. Green for breakfast, and headed out the door. As soon as I had started the van, I felt better, because work is only five minutes away on a bad day, and this was Saturday morning, a very good day, so we're talking three minutes, max.

Anyway, I was coming out of the driveway, and I sort of don't notice that the turn was a little tighter than usual. Then I heard this thudding, followed by a sloshy sound, and I decided I should probably put it in park and find out what had spilled. It turned out that I hadn't spilled anything so much as I had taken out the mailbox.

I had taken out the mailbox, and my dad came out of the garage and asked, serious as a heart attack, "What did you do that for?" I stared at the mailbox shaped dent in the side of the van. I stared at the gash of white where the maroon paint used to be. I stared at the smashed-ass mailbox, dangling from its former post. I stared at my dad.

"You should probably just go," he said. Fine with me. I went to work and pretty much got over it, as did both my parents (although they did make me pay for the new mailbox), but I guess the problem is, why do I keep running into things?

And not just things in general, but specifically, just the things at my house. I like to drive, and I like to think that I'm pretty good at it, but if this keeps up, I might not be driving anymore.

As far as distractions go, I tend to make more driving mistakes with the music off than on, unless I have to change CDs, but the van's steering is all old and loose, so trying to catch the various napkins and other trash rendered airborne by the open windows (necessitated by the lack of air conditioning) is a gamble, and as a rule I avoid doing this when there are, you know, cars in the other lane. I have the requisite reckless desire for speed, kept in check by the depressing fact that the van's speedometer only goes up to 85, which I often come close to on runs to the library, but I know the twists and turns of the quarter mile strip better than the back of my hand (I've never been too close with the back of my hand, so much as the front, I suppose).

It's been three days since Mailboxgate, and everything seems to be going okay. Hopefully, my Bad Teen Accident is over, and I can get on with my driving career. I'm not holding my breath, though. And in the meantime, I'm in the market for a non-flood damaged, small, reasonably un-fugly car that runs, so if you know of any, I don't want to hear about it.