In all honesty? I never expected to be able to pull off any of the crap that I got away with in my last year of college. I barely scraped by in my classes and barely scraped by in my life. In the first two weeks alone, I managed to get heroically fired from my Victoria's Secrets job (no spelling out profanities with matching bra and pantie sets, even though an ex-co-worker told me couldn't keep them in stock after those displays went up) and kicked out of two chemistry classes (no military-grade explosives allowed on the campus, even if it was created in the science labs), as well as making my accidental Broadway debut (I had no idea that there was a live performance going on -- I honestly thought it was just a talent show) and reducing the head frat boy, single-handed, on campus to a squeking, sniveling mess. 

    But none of those were even close to topping my fifth, and final, stunt: faking my own death.

    Yeah, I know. Pretty dumb, right? At the time I had just broken up with my long-term girlfriend, my childhood best friend, and had nothing left to lose. I needed to get away and start a new life which would have been as easy as upping and leaving town. However, I was kind of forced to go along. See, I got the idea to fake my own death when the newspaper printing my obituary. 

 My voicemail blew up (not literally). Luckily, I suppose, no one knew where I was living at the time. I had just scored an apartment after moving out of my girlfriend's and it was a dinky little thing in the middle of no where. So after I had some watered-down coffee and a think, scrolling through my Facebook feed and ignoring my buzzing phone, I packed my bags. I didn't have much to cram into them. I left most of the perishable things behind. When I was searching through the bathroom closet, I found a bottle of jet black hair dye I bought the day we broke up. I'd been thinking of dying it previously and what could be better timing?

    With newly dyed hair and an inconspicuous sweater, I was ready to hightail it out of town. But it was harder than you'd think, because most people knew and would recognize my orange camero; it was pretty infamous by this point in time. And it had to go. So I sold it to the guy next door for three hundred dollars. His had broken down last night and he didn't ask any questions as to why I was selling it in the first place. Some people. Of course, now it was time to figure out what I  was going to do for vehicular escape. 

    I couldn't risk being seen walking to a bus station or anything like that, and wearing a balaclava in April was out of the question, so I hiked down to a slightly unfamiliar part of town and waited all of two minutes before someone drove by on one of those small motor-scooters and ditched it on the road to run inside the bakery. He didn't even take the keys out.

    Before anyone could stop me, I straddled it and was off, riding down the road on a classmate's motor scooter. I didn't go fast, but it was fast enough. Anyway, he could totally afford to buy a new one.