Christy White

I could tell something was wrong.

As I rounded the corner from the stairwell behind the communications building, my car was one of the only ones left in the lot. It was about 8 p.m., and the sun had just started tiptoeing towards dusk.

It was going to be an absolutely stunning evening.

But as I approached my vehicle, it just looked … odd. I couldn’t explain it then, and I’m not doing a great job now. But when I finally arrived at my destination, my gut instinct that something was amiss with my driver’s side window was, unfortunately, correct.

The shatterproof window was everywhere. It blanketed the ground, the driver’s seat and floor boards with hundreds of thousands of brilliant, cuboid-shaped glass blocks that sparkled like diamonds in the early evening sunlight. A fist-sized, Australia-shaped chunk of white concrete lay tucked in the front passenger seat — an interloper in my automotive fortress of solitude.

Naturally, I called the police and jumped through those hoops. I gave my statement and stood by with grim resignation as the officer’s gloved hands ejected 4 cups of broken glass out onto the pavement. I was not relishing the 40-minute ride home, but I was grateful that I had found a towel in the back seat that would literally cover my ass.

My obsession over this event has followed, what I believe to be, the usual pattern. How could this have happened in broad daylight? Who would do something like that? Why me? For a brief time, I fantasized about having enemies or being in the possession of government secrets that would make me the target of some espionage plot.

Alas, I’m not a spy, and I’m a genuinely nice person. So no dice.

It’s very likely that I will never know why this happened, and the culprit, or culprits, will never be found. Not that I don’t have faith in UTPD, but the lack of eye witnesses and leads thus far means I’m not holding my breath for a solution.

I can’t get back my time; I can’t get back my feeling of security; I can’t get back my insurance co-payment. There’s not much to muster in the way of appropriate punishments anyway.

So a guilt curse will have to do.

Guilt curses go back a long way in my family. It seems to only work if you’re a mom, and I mean that in the most generic way possible. Ever given selflessly or done a thankless task? You’re a mom. It’s that simple. Curse power is buildable, however, and accumulates over time. For example, my maternal grandmother was the Grand Funk Master of the guilt curse.

My mother cursed me once. She said she hoped I had a daughter just like me. And you know what? I did. That’s how I know the curses work.

That said, I am formally and officially placing a guilt curse on those responsible for my car.

To the person who vandalized my car: I wish you success in career and money. I hope your education is fulfilling and you land that dream job. May you find a supportive partner and nurture living things together. Travel a lot. May you have long nights of happiness where you marvel at your unbelievable luck.

But on the stroke of midnight a handful of years from now, you will be woken with overwhelming guilt over what you did to my car. May your guilt wake you at 3 a.m. every six months until you figure out how to address your own demons and stop making them someone else’s problem.

Christy White is a junior studying Journalism and Electronic Media. She can be reached at cwhit106@vols.utk.edu.

Columns and letters of The Daily Beacon are the views of the individual and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Beacon or the Beacon's editorial staff.

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