Cone Burglar

It all started with a hamburger.

That isn't really how it started. There was a hamburger, yes, but it wasn't the hamburger that "started" it.  It wasn't even a hamburger; it was a cheeseburger. I guess you could say it started as a hamburger, and then became a cheeseburger, but that wasn't the start to my story. Now I don't even know where it "all" started. My birth, maybe? Really I just like the sound of, "It all started with a hamburger," but that's a lie, so I need to change it.

There was a hamburger involved.

That's better. 

I ate the hamburger, multiple events followed the burg incident, and I woke up this morning to three, giant parking cones in my backseat. This is odd, yes, but not as odd as it could be. I happen to have a giant parking cone collection. Perhaps that is where it all started...

It all started with a parking cone.

Two years ago, I was at a party. It's sad that this is on my autobiographical timeline, but these are the things my mind decides are crucial memories.

1990 - birth (which I don't even remember, but I think there were vaginas involved)

1995 - I flash a Kindergartner.

2000 - Scrunchies are purchased.

2006 - I eat a lot of Pop-Tarts and gain 40 pounds.

2010 - I live off of dumpster pizza and lose 40 pounds.

2011 - I go to a party and start a parking cone collection.

"Is this yours?" I asked someone at the party.

"The parking cone?"

"Yes."

"Yeah..."

"THIS IS AWESOME."

"Thank...you...?"

"LET ME HAVE IT."

"Okay?"

"YES!"

No bribery involved whatsoever. The guy just let me have it. Once I got home, I placed it in my lawn for my father to notice the next morning.

"Hey, there's a giant parking cone in our yard," he said to me, laughing.

"Yeah, it's mine."

"What?"

"That's my cone."

"Where'd you get that?"

"It's a souvenir."

"From where?"

"A party."

"...okay."

There's a certain age when your parents stop furthering their questions. At 21, I had finally reached the point when my parents would not ask me why I took a giant parking cone and put it in our lawn among the daffodils.

After that, I started noticing parking cones more and more. They stuck out. They called my name. Every parking cone was a potential addition to my collection.

I only took them when I drank. When I moved to Chattanooga, I left them at my parent's house, because my brother also appreciated them. He knew their value, their worth, their desirable qualities. He was 4 years old.

Since I've been in Chatt, I've taken two cones. That's a cone a semester. Not bad. You have to space out your cone-scavenging. They're everywhere, ya know. You can't just take them all. You could kill someone doing that.

"WHERE DO I GO?! THERE ARE NO CONES TO GUIDE ME!"

Crash.

See? You have to be a responsible cone thief. I seem to have forgotten that rule last night, because I woke up this morning to a backseat full of the entire Conehead family. 

"WHEN DID MY CONE COLLECTION TRIPLE?" I texted the friend who had been with me at the time.

His response was this: have you looked in your trunk?

I immediately grew paranoid, because that's a really creepy thing to say to someone who has NO recollection of the previous night. Since I have no camera, I brought the trunk-object into my room and snapped a photo of it to show you - because honestly, I don't even know what to call this.

Not a cone, but definitely part of the cone family.

I may have started a new collection.