I got into a very curious car wreck yesterday while coming back from Detroit.

I was happily texting in the passenger’s seat when I heard a loud thud and felt the car lurch. I looked over my shoulder to see an old blue Buick airborne as it flew down a hill and crashed through the fence of a Ford automotive plant.

The hit forced us down an exit ramp, so we had to drive through a strangely familiar neighborhood looking for a route back to the highway. Police were already on the scene when we got there and were quite surprised to see us as the other driver didn’t even know she had hit us. Apparently, a tire on her car had blown out causing her to careen wildly across lanes of traffic and bump us on her way out. She was so panicked that she didn’t remember much of what had happened.

But that’s not the weirdest part. That eerily familiar neighborhood the accident forced us into? It belongs to none other than my friend Oz, who I have been putting off calling for ages. Cue guilt, prickling spine.

And so I figure I should just call the guy before I get hit by lightning next. Providence is turning violent.

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