Tales of a Teenagers Car

My car, a 1996 Ford Taurus, with a color that lies somewhere between blue and violet, though often concealed in a coating of dust, dirt, and everything else reflecting the journeys it had undertaken that day. Wherever my car goes though, it can always be sure to receive some presents from flying friends, faithfully left every day upon my windshield without fail. A slowly but ever increasing spot of gray peers out from the thin coating of color that has been ripped by vandal hands. Faint streaks of red line the bottom sides, a reminder of the times the owner has driven just a little too close to those pesky poles at fast food joints. However, these are just small details of the car when compared to "The Dent". What is this "Dent"? It’s what everyone points and gawks at when they first encounter my car. The expressions are akin to what a tourist would do upon seeing the Pyramids of Egypt or the Great Wall of China. "How in the heck did that happen?" is a question I am asked on almost a daily basis, but the heck is usually replaced by more colorful language. I could say a small asteroid smashed into the front bumper, and people would probably believe me. My pale face burns red when I confess it was actually the product of my careless teenage driving, but still I try to look at it in a positive way and think of it as a sign of distinction, a battle scar, something that assures I will never mistake another car for mine in the parking lot.