(Originally published on January 26, 2003.)

I once ran over my sister with a car. Yes, I did. Given, it wasn’t a large or particularly heavy car, but a big ol’ real car was driven atop her. By me.

On accident. Naturally. I had been given a tan, not faceless biege, but Tan Mercury Lynx, which, if you’ll throw back a good decade is a notch down from a Ford Escort. Same car maker, even shittier economy car. And that shit was old,too. Had over one hundred thousand miles on it when I got it, I think, and one had to master a laborious and intricate series of foot movements in order to get the damn thing in gear. I can now drive anything, my father rationalized, and he’s right, I guess, if anything is junker, hatchback compact cars. Junker, hatchback cars are my bitches, ’tis true.

My 15-year-old sister who later became far too cool (what with her sneaking out to smoke cigarettes all the time with a confused homosexual and an adult woman with two kids and a house full of truly repugnant-smelling pets) to ride up in the Lynx of Love. Yet her ass didn’t want to be seen near a school bus, so she begged rides from me. I think maybe there was a clause wherein I was forced to drive my sister home. Regardless, we both hated every minute, she hiding in the backseat, embarrassed and ashamed of the Little Tan Van.

This incident was pre-that, when she was still thrilled not to have to ride the cheese wagon to classes. It was winter and the windows were icy and the girl volunteered to scrape the ice from the windsheild, all excited about it and shit. So she was out there getting her scrape on and I’m blaring Little Earthquakes at top fucking volume because “so you can make me cum, that doesn’t make you Jesus,” and all the sudden bitch is rapping on the windsheild with the scraper and I think she might even crack it, so I scream back assorted profanities, but the windsheild is still icy so I can’t see that she is in intense pain.

Apparently, the Lynx slipped into neutral and parked on Amy’s foot. I cringe, still, when I think of how much that must have hurt. Once I turned the CD off to ask her “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” I realize what I’ve done. Paniced, I put the car in reverse and back up, at which time the tires roll forward off Amy’s now purpleing foot and back over it. She hops, I believe, inside the house where she whines and cries and acts like I fucking ran over her with a car or something.

Amy got balloons from me, a pair of crutches, a shitload of sympathy from my mother, a day off school and maybe even a few covered chores. I got a lifetime of, “That’s nothing, Brittney ran over me once with her piece of shit car.”