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.
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?"
"THIS IS AWESOME."
"LET ME HAVE IT."
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."
"That's my cone."
"Where'd you get that?"
"It's a souvenir."
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!"
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.