I like my car. My car takes me where I need to go, in a rattling, squeaky kind of way, but it gets me there. I talk nicely about my car often. I defend it when others say it's crappy or a deathtrap. It is not a deathtrap. It is a good car.
True, I neglect it sometimes. I do not change the oil as often as I should, I do not allow very adequate time for it to warm up in the morning, and I have not gotten around to finding out why the oil-pressure gauge flickers around like it does. It has never left me stranded on the side of the highway, though...only run out of gas suddenly from time to time, and that is mostly my fault anyway.
Perhaps my car harbors certain resentments toward me. I don't know. Perhaps it is angry that I never gave it a catchy-sounding car name like "the Beast" or "Big Red" or "Blaze the Amazing Thunder-Blazer." Perhaps that whole oil thing really is important to my car, and my car is now angry that I keep breaking my promise to go get that looked at. Perhaps my car was only fed shredded wheat as a child, when all he wanted was a sweet sweet taste of Lucky Charms, like all the other kids have for breakfast. I Dont Know.
All I know is that today, December 23, Christmas Eve Eve, my car has decided that it does not want to go to the grocery store or to Michaels or to CVS or to my sisters or to Philadelphia to see my friends who I haven't seen in four months. My car has decided that it would, in fact, prefer not.
I could really use a circle of singing Whos over here...
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