Remember the time?

[kproche]

Blame esprix baa.... baa....

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.

It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.

Comments

[furrycatherder.livejournal.com]

I will always remember the night we spent in Daytona Beach after the Daytona 500. Your car had broken down in the traffic jam leaving the raceway and I was in my Corvette and offered you a lift. I took off the t-tops and we raced down the highway at some ung-dly speed -- my poor 85MPH had long since been buried and the tachometer was slowly creaping towards the red zone -- because you just had to experience a taste of what those race car drivers had just experienced.

At first you sat there, in white-knockled terror, as we flew up on the backs of cars going the legal limit, but soon you were giggling like a school girl, begging me to wind the car out a little more. Me, I became increasingly nervous as the thought of a night in jail for driving 135MPH on a public road flashed through my head as the cars' we passed headlights faded into the darkness. Had the driver I just scared half to death gotten off a quick 911 call on their cell phone? Had they even seen me long enough to know what to tell the police?

Before I knew it we were 80 miles from our hotels and we had no choice but to turn around and look for a place to grab a bite to eat and refill the significantly-more-empty 24 gallon gas tank. Ah, the days of $1.85 a gallon gasoline, and to think I complained about gas prices that night.

Driving back to Daytona beach I took it slow and easy and we enjoyed the sights and sounds of other race-crazed drivers screaming down the highway just as we'd done an hour or so earlier. They should close the highway after races so those of us with sports cars can act crazy without having all the gray-haired old farts in Cadillacs and Lincoln Town Cars slowing us down.

Perhaps some other year, if we both wind up in Daytona Beach at the same time, and I have a car with more seats, we can take your partner along for the ride. I'd love to see the look on his face when he asks "How fast are we going?" and I respond "I haven't the slightest idea -- the speedometer doesn't go that high."