The year was 2012. It was summer, and a particularly hot one at that. In a Volkswagen sedan, me and my family were trekking across the Mojave, not far from Vegas. The blaring sun rendered virtually all content on screens from that of a DS to a portable DVD player imperceptible, thus making entertainment extremely sparse. Even the power of German engineering couldn't keep you sane in such an environment. In my deliciousness, I threw what I believed to be a grape I'm my mouth. Except it wasn't a grape. It was a small, discolored cherry tomato. As the bitter, vomit-inducing juice exploded out of its figuratively grenade, my face and whole body contorted out of disgust in ways I didn't think possible. I knew I'd forever be scarred.