Bad driving. It makes my father nuts to see every vehicle except his to be dented, smashed, paint scratched, or parked badly on a regular basis. The proof is in the pictures:

My old car, driven into the back of a Suburban, whose car was so mammoth that I think he thought it was just an extra burst of power as he pressed the gas in rush hour. I followed said Suburban for 10 miles, wondering when they were going to pull over. They never did.

The passenger side of my old car. My parents' old house had a one car driveway that expanded to a three car driveway after a curve. They placed a large, black, wrought-iron gate across the driveway before the curve, which almost always stayed open and defeated the purpose of having a gate. In backing out, I hit the post and metal plate that the gate rests against when closed. The door didn't open more than three inches after the fence incident, until a friend ripped it open one night. Surprisingly, the door stayed on and was mostly functional after that.

My brother's truck. He is currently locked up, so his truck has become a mosquito bredding ground in my parents' driveway. He was rear-ended shortly after getting this vehicle. This truck was filled with trash, dirty clothes, tax information, and most importantly, thousands of cigarette butts. It took the better part of an afternoon to clean it where it was driveable to the car wash. The Breathalyzer was not updated, so there was no way to move it from this position once the water collected--no power steering or brakes, and no street parking.

This is our current vehicle. It has yellow scratched into the side from me backing into a huge, concrete-encased lightpole in a parking lot at night. I never even saw it.

This is my mother's parking job. Enough said.

I did not get any pics of our truck damage from being rear-ended and the back window broken out--I was too sad to memorialize the events. I also do not have any pictures of the Oldsmobile I drove through a hospital heli-pad while looking for a french fry, smashing three concrete posts and tearing down a four-foot high chain-link fence. I do not have photos of the damage my brother did to an Altima by ramming into the curb at a Jack-In-The-Box drive-through, turning the front driver's tire at a ninety degree angle from the car, but somehow drove home and hit the kitchen when parking. I unfortunately do not have pictures of the car my brother drove into a building in a foreign country I am not cleared to mention by name as the incident became an international matter with the President briefed and everything. I do not have pictures of the 1978 Trans Am my brother destroyed once I got my driver's permit, or the Honda CRX that sat decaying in my parents' driveway waiting for my brother to fix up. I do not have any pictures of the Corolla that Mower owned when we worked at Friday's. I swear I thought the car belonged to a busser who had just arrived in this country--the window on the passenger side would actually open the door, even if it was locked, when you rolled it down. Mower thought that was funny to do to people on the highway.

If you ever see me with a rental, though, they get the car back in better condition than they gave it to me. Yes, I know, I am weird.