The Good Life

I am a girl. I have an average life, not the best; not the worst. Living on an avoided street with an array of charismatic people proves some level of difficulty. I am what happens when you put someone in between two lifestyles. In just under a month my whole life takes a colossal turning point, with a car accident, an incident with a burning wheelie bin, the pervert in the ice cream van and a bus stop. It all started with 80mph.
(WARNING: this has some language not suitable for younger audiences. And of sexual themes.)


3. Chapter 3: what a waste of a Volvo

 I had spent last night with a piece of toffee cake and some bottles of grapetiser I had hidden under my bed. This was my little way of celebrating, watching those crappy American sitcoms with some form of sugary food and drink till the early hours of the morning. PBS hates it when I keep grapetiser under my bed, so I've been hiding it in my wardrobe till she stops looking under my bed. I did everything I had planned to do that night, draw random things, put my headphones in and deafen myself with My Chemical Romance and Taylor Swift. I would sleep half in a tee shirt that I would wear tomorrow along with my lounge pants. Cake my face for the fun of it with all my old crappy make up. Read the books I never got to finish, and finish them! Everything to just say, I'm celebrating.
                  I woke the next morning at 11.30, an average time for me at a weekend. I was dressed and listening to music, when PBS opened the door and popped her face through the gap. “We're going to town in 10 minutes, so get ready”. She gave me a look that said you are a shame to this family, and slammed the door. I saw nothing wrong with what I was doing, but for some reason I was. I was wearing high waist jeans with my burgundy jumper, which seemed pretty valid to go to town in.
                           I sighed, shutting off my phone and bouncing down the stairs. I sat down on out sofa next to my dad, today he was trying out his new tape measure that had come in the post. He kept pulling it back and forth like it was some yo yo. He had been drinking last night, you could tell. His eyes were half closed, and had a zombie like laziness to them. He was wearing his red and white rugby shirt which he wore last night. His tobacco packets were sprawled out on the table like a fan. After his entertainment with a measuring tape, his eye flickered to the television; mine followed. On the TV was Alan Tichmarse hosting another utterly futile garden show, with lots of too bright flowers for a morning and featuring lots of butterflies. Up on the sofa jumped the cat, rubbing the whole of its fluffy body on my arm. It finally sat down on my lap and gave me a closed eye cat smile. Well, there goes another nice pair of jeans! Covered in car hair.
                         After 10 minutes of shitty garden shows, PBS was still not ready. When I went back upstairs to check on her, she was in her bra and some leggings, with clothes sprawled out over the bed. “I'm nearly done!” She said, her voice filled with aggravation and a little venom. I sighed again, purposely showing my annoyance so I could hear her scowl.
                      Eventually we did set of to town. It was then that I found out I we needed essentials, like toothpaste and body wash. Now when it comes to incredibly important things like this that maintain hygiene, PBS has NO sense of smell whatsoever. For example, I like musky and exotic pungent smells, however she likes bland horrible smells that leave my nose tingling. She likes this Shea butter and apricot crap at the moment so I've just being washing in shampoo instead. We also “needed” some clothes for me too, despite the fact my choice of clothing is fine.
                         This topic has been debated about a lot, often ending in me sat at the back of the car desperate that she would go die in a hole. One time she called me fat for not fitting into some women's clothes (because all the teen clothes are for girls that are made of sticks. Serious.). She said I was not  a normal teenager because I hated shopping, had no social life whatsoever and that I didn't really like girly things. Well anyone would avoid shopping with her, even if they payed a million pounds for it.
“Oh fucking hell!”, she screamed at a car in front of her, “why the hell do you have to be so god damn slow?!”. In front of our boring beige car drove a Mini Cooper that was more colourful than the telleytubbies combined. I, jumping like a kangaroo on steroids in the back seat, grabbed into the door handle in shock of her voice and language. My god woman, calm your arse down! To say she was brought up by a Christian family, her language was blasphemy. My loving mother, who cared so much about road safety drove onwards so that there was an inch between her and the Mini. This was a tac-tic of hers, in hope the car would speed up. I hoped the mini would stop and we'd have a crash so she would realise how stupid she was for doing that. She annoys me that much that if she didn't learn anything from a fucking car crash, I would violence her myself.
                             A few minutes of me fearing my near car crash/possible death, the mini turned around a corner. PBS literally slammed her foot down on the breaks (and she wonders now why she has a fucking problem with them during her MOT) so the car sped up along the road. By then I was already traumatised after a ten minute drive, head spinning. I'm not sure I've mentioned it but she takes her anger out by speeding, yelling at me and slapping the dog when it mistakes the floor as a shitting ground. I have complained many times to her about her speeding, but she never listened. “ I like to live a little!” She would say. Woman, I swear to god that you have the sanity of all the patients combined that are locked up in a mental asylum. Living is something you do when you are 20, going out drinking and pissing about like the twats you are. At your age you should be worrying about your child's safety in the back of the car. Live a little, my arse!
                          We turned around many corners until we came to the motorway. PBS still continuing her speeding spree, speeding up around corners when even I know that you should slow down. Her driving really started to piss me off that I really wished for a car crash to happen so she would learn. 
                              The surprising thing was that PBS had never been in a car crash with her speeding, so I was quite baffled. Baffled to how she could be that fortunate; baffled to how she was not mangled in car rubble, unconscious. Many times, she had been near a car crash, but never had she actually been in one. She also “has trouble” seeing cars that are perfectly visible on the road. Even I notice them, and I'm the one staring absentmindedly out of a window.
                                Back to the story, she had been speeding her anger out for 15 minutes straight, me in the back dying from a dizzy head never mind a car crash. I have been known to have horrible car sickness, PBS driving made it SO much worse. We were going to go down a straight road, with turn off point splitting through it. PBS, in clear sight of these turn off points, still continued whizzing down the road like she was trying to have a race with a firework in a Volvo. 
                                I saw a green car, quite car away down the road, popping its bumper out of the corner of one of the turn off points. I guess because our Volvo was just at the edge of the road, he could make just make it in time to turn and go down the road.
                               PBS did not see this car and continued speeding. At that moment I mentally crossed every possible limb in my body that I would not die.
                             The green car that wanted to turn went along with his plan to turn. I crossed every limb possible that the driver in the other car would not die or be badly injured.
                            I knew it. We had crashed the Volvo! What a waste of a fucking Volvo, some peoples faces and money, thanks to PBS. Because of her, there is now an ambulance here treating my bloody forehead by some lady who is really keen on knowing my name. I do not tell her though. I had my head leaning on the window pane, and when we crashed my head smashed into the window. I'm lucky, they said. Lucky I didn't have a serious head injury. I've been blessed by Lady Luck, I was told. PBS however had broken bones, well well well! Not surprised. I went to see the driver in the other car, who was okay, but his car looked like something you'd find in some scrap yard to build your garden shed with. I apologised for everything I have complained about PBS. He said it wasn't my fault. True. Very true. But I still felt some guilt passed onto me for having to let her drive the car, when I could have safely driven a car better than her any day.
                          PBS was rescued from the wreckage of the silver Volvo, and placed inside the ambulance. All I wanted to do was get dropped off home and see my chavs. I miss them sometimes. They would have waited for me at the bus stop, despite the fact there was no school, figured I was not coming and probably went to go throw tin cans at passing posh rich kids. 
                         The ambulance woman who treated my head scar turned around to face me, “you want to join your mother in the ambulance, sweetie?”
                        I shook my head, “I just want to go home.”
“You don't want to join your mum?”, she replied, obviously taken back. The look I gave her said no I hate the female dog. Her impression of me then completely changed, I'm positive of it.
In the end, my dad picked me up. I like his driving. Slow. I was told to return to the hospital for a check up in a few days, and along with some super paracetamol tablets to help ease the pain. I denied wanting to go in that ambulance, I didn’t want to see another one in my life. (Impossible, I know). On the way home I complained to my dad about driving and how absolutely crap PBS was at driving. For the first time in ages, my dad said “well, if we are on a tight budget from now on, blame your mother. She can't drive; she drives like a dick. Do not tell her I said that”
“Aye, aye captain” I replied, arm at bandaged forehead like some war torn soldier returning home.
                        I've always gotten along better with my dad. It's always been like that. My parents relationship, on the other hand, is getting noticeably different. Sometimes I feel like I'm one of those children that the parents just stay together for. I mean, PBS sleeps in a different room because she can't stand my dad’s snoring. My dad even defends me from going shopping with PBS, let's me sit in his garage with a bottle of fizzy flavoured water and listen to the Arctic Monkeys (even though he doesn't really like the band). They were playing on BBC Radio 2 at this  moment. “They always talk about drugs”, he says.
So I say,“Of course. That is society today after all.”
And that was all that was said and complained about in the car ride home.


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