Thursday, March 7, 2013

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?"








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."

"From where?"

"A party."


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.



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.

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