The phrase totally underplays the impact of having your lovely red Alero T-boned by a guy in a white Mazda with incredibly low mileage on his life. Four eyewitnesses volunteer their numbers before the guy himself shows up fifteen minutes later, saying it took that long to find parking. This unlikely delay screws up the police dispatcher and adds two hours to getting processed at the Collision Reporting Centre, somewhere just south of Ungava Bay. Nobody apologizes for anything because it might be misconstrued as a confession. Your dreams become redundant slow-mo replay time-loop leaps through overgrown Day-Glo underbrush. You spend the next three weeks hoping the insurance adjuster will agree to repair your car. You want their offer to mirror the good life you don’t deserve but still feel you’ve earned. But it’s cheaper and easier for them to simply write it off. You wonder why you even need a car. Luckily, you get a deal on a three-year-old Corolla. Barely broken in, which is almost fun, except it feels like Mazda guy has plundered your savings. Still, whatever you were planning, you’re better off. After all, choices can’t stay parked forever.