I have a confession to make. Last Sunday when I was leaving to go to my mom's house, I kind of hit a parked car.

And then I kind of left.

My driveway is one of those really steep, narrow driveways - you know, the kind with the strip of grass down the middle. You have to back out perfectly straight in order to not drive on the lawn on either side, and to avoid hitting any cars that might be parked on either side of the driveway on the street.

Normally our street's empty, but there's a church a block away, and on Sundays a ton of people park on our street. Thus, cars were parked all up and down the street that day.

I backed out slowly and cleared the cars on either side of the driveway. "Whew. Made it," I thought to myself.

And that's when I felt a sharp bang.

Like a moron, I'd backed into a parked car across the street.

I'm normally a very responsible and conscientious person. Read my grammar school report cards, if you don't believe me.

I quickly looked around for witnesses. Only moments before, the sidewalks had been crowded with happy-go-lucky churchgoers, but at that moment, miraculously, there were only a few people around. No one seemed to have seen what I'd done.

Should I leave a note? Or should I flee the scene of the crime, and hope for the best?

God help me, I made the decision to leave. I sped off toward the freeway, my heart pounding.

I imagined that moments after I'd turned the corner, the owner of the car had come rushing out, screaming, yelling and pumping her (I imagined my victim was a woman) fist in the air. I imagined that she'd seen me pull out of the driveway, and that she'd stormed up to my house, banging on the door and demanding retribution from D, who would be clueless. I called D.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi."

"How are you?"

"Fine. What's up?"

"I-hit-a-parked-car-when-I-left-and-I took-off-and-didn't-leave-a-note-and-now-I-feel-guilty-and-scared."

"I know. I saw you."

"You DID?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do you think anyone else saw me?"

"I don't think so."

"Am I evil for not leaving a note?"

"Probably. But if it makes you feel any better, it's an older car, I don't think you hit it very hard. But I'm pretty sure you left some kind of mark or a dent."

I felt miserably guilty the rest of the day. I confessed to my mother. She suggested I call D to see if the car was still there. If so, I should ask him to leave a note on my behalf. If the damage was minimal, it probably wouldn't be more than $100 dollars to fix the dent or buff out the paint.

Thoughts of insurance claims and rising costs swam through my head, and in the end, my evil and irresponsible side won out over my responsible and conscientious side. I didn't call, and I didn't leave a note.

This morning, while driving to work on the freeway, BAM! One of my tires blew out. This was very, very scary. My car kind of fishtailed and I freaked out, but I made it over to the side of the road. Triple A came to my rescue, disposed of my shredded tire and put the spare on. I drove to a tire shop to buy a new tire.

The cost of a new tire? $98.

Hello, Karma? This is Sonya. You're a bitch.