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I hope my mom never reads this, because she would freak. I wonder if she ever realizes she was as “reckless” and adventurous as me at this age. I wonder if she got as ticked at her own mother, because she felt hovered over and treated like a fourteen-year-old child. Just because… Gah. Forget it.

Yes. My mom and I butt heads a lot. Welcome to the real world: we’re a messed up family with issues, and I’m tired of outward appearances. I get ticked at my parents a lot. There’s a lot to be ticked about. Maybe I actually really will move out in the next few years, and finally feel like they’re letting me have my own life. Maybe one day they will see me as an adult, instead of a baby.

Gah. I hate it.

But anyways. So, yeah, I picked up a hitchhiker today (and yes, he was a guy).

I thought at first he was a teenager (he wasn’t very tall, and it was dark and stormy out). I turned my truck around and drove back, asking him if he was okay. Young women are not supposed to pick up hitchhikers. No duh.

But this time was different.

You see, I was scared for him (“worry,” he called it, when I asked him why on earth he was out in the storm). I had a friend who used to walk  along the sides of roads, hoping a car would hit him. And I know: I only take night walks in the rain when my depression is rough on me, and I need to get away and have some alone time with God.

He didn’t smell great (like smoke and sweat). Oh well. My car was a wreck because I sort of live out of it during the work week, but I doubt he cared. I chatted with him. His voice took on a higher tone that guys get when they are nervous around me (that happens a lot. Yay).

When I found out that he just needed a ride to his house, I told him: “Hop in.” I figured my parents could shoot me later.

We chatted as we drove. I told him I’d had friends I had been worried for, and how they used to walk along the sides of roads after dark, and that was why I had picked him up. We talked of the area where we lived, and how beautiful it was. And I told him about Chehalis, and how much I missed it. He said he didn’t like that area much. I told him: “Yeah. There are a lot of jerks down there. Though a lot of good people too.”

“I’m Jack,” he told me, holding out his hand. I took it and shook, steering with my other hand. “Arielle,” I answered.

I hope I made a difference in his life, even it was a ride through the storm so he didn’t have to walk. I hope he’s okay, and that he’s going to be okay. And I’m glad to hear a bit of his story, and share a bit of mine.

This evening, I was blessed by a hitchhiker.

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