To Whoever Keyed My Sister’s Car

I’m sure you’re not reading this, because that would imply we know each other. And if, on the off chance we do, and I discover who you might be, I’ll be sure to have a frank conversation with you about using your words.

Battles have begun on this blog. I have laid down enough literature on heartbreak and relationships to stir up trouble offline.

I’ve been cryptic more than once, sure that the person in question could decide for themselves if I was talking about them. I like to think of myself as a real Tay Swift wannabe, on occasion.

So if Taylor’s car got keyed, surely she’d write a song about it.

That’s sort of how I feel about this whole situation.

And I never meant to turn you into a blog post. No I never intended to turn this story into a lesson, but man I am in need of a good lesson these days.

To be honest, after I told a co-worker, the first words out of his mouth were, “Did you blog about it?”

Well, no.

Well, not yet.

Here’s what I know about you: nothing.

I don’t know if you were angry with her, if you met her once or didn’t even remember her name. I don’t know if you just really, really have a passionate dislike for people who drive Honda Civics.

All I know is that you carved a four-letter word and the word “you” into that midnight blue paint and it cannot be undone.

I have thought about all the times I turned to words to pummel injustices, perceived and actual. I have thought about the mistakes in judgment I’ve made, turning this blog into a stage to try to get friends to admit they’d done something wrong.

For years, I felt guilty about my words.

And then you happened.

Listen, I know she’s kind of black and white like that.

Level with me. She’s got wicked good fashion sense, hair so bouncy and voluminous it was born for a salon commercial, and a wild, bold heart. I know she doesn’t walk on eggshells. She’s not that kind of girl.

Clearly, neither are you.

People either love her dearly or want to destroy her. I think we know which side you’re on.

But don’t you think I’ve ever gotten mad at her? Don’t you think she’s ever screwed up for someone else?

I hope you didn’t think she was perfect. That’s a terrible burden to place on somebody.

Really, it doesn’t matter what you think, though. What matters is that you’ve done something unfixable.

Do me a favor. Picture this world:

You pull up for a job interview with F— You scrawled across the hood of your car.

Do you think you’re getting the job?

That’s what I thought.

Imagine if we took our tweets and taped them to our backs like Kick Me signs. All the drunk text messages you ever sent hovered above your head like those thought bubbles in old-school phone commercials.

That’s what I imagine it feels like to walk outside on a Sunday morning, collapse to the pavement, and wonder how you’re going to pretend it never happened.

Maybe you were drunk. I don’t know. It’s not really my forgiveness you need.

I’m just letting you know, personally, that there are some things money can’t buy. And dignity, well, it’s one of them.

Sincerely,
A Totally Un-Cool, Overly-Protective Older Sister

PS. Please don’t key my car?

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