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Dear Scabby: Should I tell my family about the kid I accidentally killed?

Dear Scabby: I hit a child driving home from work. This was 3 years ago. I haven’t told anyone. What should I do?! -CLUMSY

Dear Clumsy: If I had a dollar for every person I hit with my 2002 Saturn S Series, I’d probably be able to afford Cinemax. It’s entirely possible that you never even hit someone with your car and instead are a victim of memory implantation, which is a technique doctors and Virgo moms use to help you “remember” details of an event that never took place. A handful of therapists have used this technique on me to try and unearth the annals of my “uniquely tragic upbringing,” but to no avail. If my childhood was so shitty, why do I have large gaps of it missing from memory?

There’s a philosophical thought experiment that poses the question, “If you hit a person with your car and no one is around to see it, did it really happen?” Even if you did hit someone with your car, that’s just natural selection at work. This evolutionary mechanism ensures we build a smarter, stronger community by weeding out the duds, like people who eat pizza with a fork and knife, couples that share an Instagram account, and children whose parents forgot to tell them to look both ways before crossing the street.

Dear Scabby: I’ve been really into this lady for a long time. A couple of years ago, we dated for like a month, hooked up a few times, and eventually broke things off. I’m still really into her, but I doubt she’d ever reciprocate the dumb ass feelings that I have for her. Should I tell her how I feel and then move on with my life? Or should I make one final (actually third) attempt to rekindle a connections? -GWITHTWOE’S

Dear G with two E’s: You referring to your crush as a “lady” tells me you’re a gentleman and also lets me know you probably have a lot in common with Norman Bates. Women think they want to be left alone, but what they really want is to be pursued with the unabated fervor of a man that was just released from a non-conjugal decades-long prison sentence. There’s even a movie about this where Mel Gibson uses his newfound clairvoyance to discover that what women want is to be sexually pursued at work and have their intellectual property stolen via telepathy called, “Passion of the Christ.”

She has scorned not one, but two of your advances and made no effort to see you naked since the last time you guys hooked up. Where do her sick and twisted mind games end? I admire your ambition, and even though the word “ambition” when used to talk about romantic endeavors almost always means “desperate,” I think a third time’s the charm. This woman will agree to a date with you if it’s the last thing she ever does, and based on your unnerving inability to take a hint, and your obsessive nature, I think there’s a good chance it will be the last thing she ever does.

Dearest Scabby: I have the biggest crush on you. How would someone such as myself win over a smart, sophisticated and sexy woman? Your rapturous beauty has awoken my heart. I beg you to let me take you out on a very fancy date, like to the local hospital cafeteria at 3:00 AM for dinner and butterscotch pudding. Yum! Please, say yes. -SMITTENINSEATTLE (P.S. What’s your astrological sign? P.P.S. What are you wearing? I bet it’s sexy!)

Dear Smitten In Seattle: I don’t know my zodiac sign because my parents wanted to forget the day I was born, and did so effectively, however, I self-identify as an Aquarius because I’m an emotional vampiress with a god-complex and a Gemini rising because everyone hates me. What am I wearing? My heart on my sleeve and a thong from Charlotte Russe that I’m not totally confident is on the right way.

I might seem deep and complex, but just like any woman, I want to be wined and slimed, which is just my cute way of saying I want to get hammered and have sex on a futon mattress. As soon as this UTI clears up I’d be open to meeting at a hospital cafeteria, maybe Chippenham, and getting to know each other over a container of orange juice and mashed potatoes that taste like they’ve been in someone’s pocket all day. There’s just something about hospital lighting and watching strangers react to bad news from doctors that I find comforting.

Scabby is the self-proclaimed mother of the Richmond, VA hardcore scene (and also a number of illegitimate children who have been trying to get in touch with her via ancestry.com.) She came this close to getting her associates degree in psychology from an online program that was later shut down for reasons we cannot disclose due to an ongoing investigation. Originally named Gabby F., she started going by Scabby after an untreated bed bugs “situation” in her first squat made national news, and is assumed to be anywhere between 50 and 100 years old. She looks forward to answering your most pressing questions and encourages people to push each other mentally, emotionally, and literally. You can contact Scabby at [email protected]

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