Ah, more great Yankton memories. . .I crashed my car into the guardrail while looking at those same boats. I smashed up the front right side of my silver Dodge Stratus. That's what happens when you look at pretty boat masts against a blue blue spring sky in the late afternoon while you're driving and forget to watch the road: you drift. Slowly. To the right. Into the guard rail. And part of the rail digs into your front right panel and makes a gash that tears all the way from your blinker to your passenger door, and while you're looking at the pretty boats, very suddenly you're forced to wonder why your car is moving all jerky and WTF? is that a *ripping metal* sound? So once you've established that you've moronically and *actually* driven into the guardrail, you drive the long miles (really, only about three), back home, with, as you discover as you get out of your car at home and assess the damage, a large strip of metal on your front end flapping in the wind. You feel like a huge dipshit. Your insurance agent is not pleased with you. You lie and say it wasn't your fault. You feel like a shittier dipshit for lying. You fix the car, and, since this is the third accident in as many months, trade it in, wondering if it's hexed.
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Ah, more great Yankton memories. . .I crashed my car into the guardrail while looking at those same boats. I smashed up the front right side of my silver Dodge Stratus. That's what happens when you look at pretty boat masts against a blue blue spring sky in the late afternoon while you're driving and forget to watch the road: you drift. Slowly. To the right. Into the guard rail. And part of the rail digs into your front right panel and makes a gash that tears all the way from your blinker to your passenger door, and while you're looking at the pretty boats, very suddenly you're forced to wonder why your car is moving all jerky and WTF? is that a *ripping metal* sound? So once you've established that you've moronically and *actually* driven into the guardrail, you drive the long miles (really, only about three), back home, with, as you discover as you get out of your car at home and assess the damage, a large strip of metal on your front end flapping in the wind. You feel like a huge dipshit. Your insurance agent is not pleased with you. You lie and say it wasn't your fault. You feel like a shittier dipshit for lying. You fix the car, and, since this is the third accident in as many months, trade it in, wondering if it's hexed.
God, Yankton.
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