2 f’cking 30 a.m.

Ever wonder who goes out on a Monday night, gets drunk, and then wrecks their car?  Me neither.  But the answer to that question presented itself on my doorstep at 2:30 this morning.  2 f’cking 30 a.m.


I’m gonna let you in on a little secret:  the worst person to wake up in the middle of the night is the wife who’s husband is gone to work and has three kids in the house and knows that we live so far out of town that the cops won’t be there for a very long time.  That woman is on edge.


And here’s the best part:  they asked to borrow a truck or my tractor to pull their car out of the ditch that they had dropped themselves into.  Really?  It’s 2:30 am and you think I’m going to a.) come outside in my bathrobe, start up the tractor and pull your sorry asses out of the ditch or b.) hand you, random intoxicated teenager, the keys to said tractor?  Because obviously you are a stellar driver.


I left them outside and called their mother, who sounded just as pleased as I did to hear the news that her 17 year old was stranded out in the boonies and had wrecked a car that I got the impression didn’t belong to him.  Then I sat up all night because I was strung out on adrenaline and running through the movie “The Strangers” in my head.  I’m going to need so much coffee today.


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