Crisis averted.

I think I may have just narrowly escaped running myself over with my own car. I was pulling into the driveway at home, chewing the memory cud of a most resplendent evening past watching Judith Lucy at the comedy festival, when I switched off my engine with the plan to exit my vehicle in an orderly fashion.

Upon opening the door, I attempted to place a dainty hoof on the pavement, which was immediately scraped along the ground and then twisted towards the belly of the car. That’s right – I was being sucked under, soon to be sandwiched between a Holden cruze and the cold, hard reality of a driveway in Tullamarine, where my body would likely remain until the following afternoon. I could picture the scene when James finally returned home from work to discover my bloated corpse being noisily devoured by alley cats and minor birds.

Not willing to accept this upper middle lower class North Western suburbs That’s Life! Magazine cover article– “I came home to find my partner crushed to death by her Holden but its okay because I found true love with the funeral director and now I’m being paid $1000 for this story”-type fate, I came to my senses and realized that given the fact that the driveway isn’t on much of an incline (approximately 0.0000001 degrees) and the car was only rolling at approximately one cubit per hour, I was probably going to be okay. In fact, I still had enough time to reach in, place the car in park, put the hand break on and remove my stereo face before being sucked into the murky depths of the 2006 Darwin awards – a fate worse than death considering THEY HAVEN'T BEEN FUNNY FOR YEARS AND THEY AREN'T TRUE SO STOP FUCKING FORWARDING THE EMAILS TO ME, CUNTS.

Footnote: When I finally got inside the house, I made a beeline for the toilet and had one of those dreaded “we ran out of toilet paper last night, so I hope you don’t have to do number twos tomorrow morning” conversation flashbacks to the previous night, just as I began a much needed number ones.

Can anybody spare a square?