If you don't understand why drunk driving is as serious as life or death, love or hate for me, then you don't really get me.

If you don't understand that I don't think your friend's joke - that I'm either lacking morals or stupid - isn't funny to me, then you don't really get me.

If you don't understand why those two things are big things - really big things - to me, then you won't understand why my tears are staining your sweatshirt.

And if you can't get that, and just dismiss my reaction as either drunken induced or as me being me, then you don't understand many of the significant moments of my life, you don't understand that things like this have made me who I am. And that truly terrifies me, considering I spent the drive over practicing my ecstatic face and demeanor I would put on when/if we get engaged. I don't want to be another failed couple, another angry person.

And yet, here I am, writing angrily in my blog instead of talking to you, because you'll just insist it's a joke, or that I've had one too many drinks, or that I'm just misunderstanding the situation. But maybe that's what I'm destine to become - another statistic. The good news is I may survive.