Oh. Just kidding.

It was raining (and I was umbrella-less) when I left the doctor's office this afternoon, so I ran through the parking lot until I saw Frank. And then I saw a huge dent in the back bumper, left by a very red car.

Yall, I nearly fell to pieces. My heart pounded. My stomach churned. I would've said a bad word, if I knew any. I thought about crying. I envisioned the very red car careening off a cliff.

I bent down to see if the very red paint would scratch off. Not so much. I wailed.

I needed to put my purse down before further surveying the damage. I pressed the unlock button on my handy-dandy new clicker, and it didn't work. That very red car had hit Frank so hard that my clicker wouldn't even work anymore . . . waaaaaahhhh!

Right before I started to tear out my now dripping wet hair, I noticed that the driver of the very red car had taken the time to put a new license plate on Frank. They even stopped long enough to reupholster the seats with leather. How kind! Oh, and they replaced Frank's Hyundai symbol with a Honda one.

Yeah. I most definitely kneeled in a puddle scraping red paint off the wrong car. Frank sat two spaces over, mortified, letting the dismal reality of his new life sink in.

I understand if you, like Frank, no longer want to claim me. Sometimes I don't even want to claim myself.