I remember the day well. It was cold November, a week before Thanksgiving, so cold that the turkey was looking forward to spending 12 hours in a warm oven. I was three and 7/12ths, though I was still a little young to understand exactly what 7/12ths was on a strictly mathematical level. Unexpectedly, my older brothers went out to play that last baseball game before winter, with the neighbors.
I tiptoed softly into their bedroom, full of wonderful but forbidden things. Alas, being three, I couldn't reach very high, so I started near the floor. Under the bed there were old socks - an effective weapon against intruders, I added that to my growing list of useful knowledge - and some magazines with odd pictures.
There was also a small car. I was small. The toy car was small. By rights, it should be mine. I placed it on the only empty section of floor, about to give it a push. Accidentally I pulled it back a bit.
Imagine my surprise when the small car all by itself jumped forward! Intrigued, I tried it again. And again. Delight! There was something interesting going on here.
I was so engrossed in my newfound discovery that I didn't hear the brothers returning (it was really too cold for baseball). The were not happy about being invaded and much screaming ensued - something about disturbing the magazines?
Suddenly I was scooped up and thrown out the window. I landed headfirst on the porch roof and skidded down onto the ground - still clutching the little car. In the ambulance, the paramedic laughed when he saw the car and told me that the car was powered by the same thing that had ripped the skin off my sensitive body as I slid on the rough surfaces.
Friction!
A force for great joy, with small cars, and yet for great pain. How curious. It was the last word that I heard as I slipped into my coma.
The end.
Cliffs: Inane useless reply to Inane useless post.