1982.
The girl who sat in front of me in my 8th grade math class first thing in the morning. Spent the whole hour putting on makeup and *curling her eyelashes* – and the teacher ignored it. It irritated the holy mother of fucking shit out of me.
Every. Day.
…for the rest of her life.
She was the middle back seat passenger leaving school with some “older friends” making a left turn onto Monterrey Road from Edenview Drive, when someone ran the light coming the other way.
I still remember seeing the skid marks fading a little every day for weeks afterward. They ALMOST got stopped.
Even in such an unforgiving crash environment as a car from the 1960’s or 1970’s that a teenager could afford in ’82, everyone in both cars got nothing but minor bumps, bruises and muscle strains.
Except her.
I still hate eyelash curlers.