I didn’t blame my dad when he told me he couldn’t wait to get me off the family tit. His car insurance company labeled me a “high risk” driver. He paid for at least five of my speeding tickets and moving violations, not to mention a diversion for each. Right now I’m on my third vehicle, and it has been wrecked and repaired twice already.

It’s safe to say that I am a horrible driver. My poor driving record began when I wrecked my first car just three months after getting the keys. I had just picked up my little sister, Raven, from second grade, and I was on my way to basketball practice at the community center. As I neared an intersection I saw my best friend, Amie, driving her old Caddy. We were waving to each other, and neither one of us was paying much attention to the decreasing distance between my front bumper and the rear panel of her car. The next thing I knew, the air bags had deployed, the car horn was stuck and Raven was in tears. I knew to call my mom first, because my dad was going to be pissed.

I was stuck without any wheels for the next three months. Not only was my car totaled, but my best friend’s car was totaled, too. My punishment was trying to find rides to school and practice. As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, a few months later my dad brought home a deerskin beige 1985 Chevy Silverado for me to drive. I thought my life was over.

I was cruising the “gut” in my hometown—around Sonic, down Broadway, around the pool, up Broadway—in my “new” truck with Nelly’s “Country Grammar” blasting. I was going around Sonic and waving to my tall, dark and handsome neighbor when— BAM—I smashed into the back of a brand new black truck.

My most dangerous wreck happened in my hometown a couple summers ago. It was raining and I was supposed to be lifeguarding at the local pool, but we closed early because the forecast predicted a storm to roll in. I was excited to be off work early, and I headed straight to my boyfriend’s house. I was at the corner near his house and was following behind a semi-truck dangerously close. I was making a left turn and then—SMACK—an old man had bashed into the passenger side of my car. I hadn’t even taken the time to make sure the coast was clear before crossing the left lanes. He could have been seriously hurt if he had been a motorcyclist, or I could have been seriously hurt if he had been a big semi that plowed into me at 40 mph. Luckily, we were both okay. I felt terrible because I later found out the man was my neighbor’s grandpa.

This time my dad was so mad that he hauled off and kicked my already smashed in door at the scene of the accident. He punished me by making me get up at 6 a.m. every day for the rest of that summer to paint the exterior of my grandparents’ house before I taught swim lessons and lifeguarded until 8 p.m. I never saw a dime from my grandparents though, because it all went to paying that $1,000 deductible.

I just turned 23, which means I need to start thinking and start paying—literally—for my mistakes. Soon I will be paying for my own car insurance, tags and registration and regular maintenance. When I got into the wreck at Sonic, my brother was with me and asked, “What were you thinking?” But that’s the thing: Every single time I have wrecked, I wasn’t thinking about my driving. I was thinking about getting to Copy Co. before it closed or hey, what a good- looking guy!

Because I’m getting closer to graduating and being on my own, I have started acting like it. I never go over the speed limit in town, and I only go 75 mph on the Interstate. I have even found myself getting mad at people who don’t pay attention to their driving, and I have become a chronic horn-honker.

I wouldn’t say I am a good driver yet, but I’m making a serious effort to never get in a wreck that’s my fault ever again. I’d say three major wrecks and numerous fender-benders should be enough to last a lifetime.