Some People's Kids: I Hate Cars

Sunday, March 4, 2007

I Hate Cars

I don’t claim to be a good driver; in fact I’m pretty bad at it. They say Third time is the charm and that proved true for me while trying to get my driver’s license. (Apparently you’re not supposed to take up three lanes when waiting to make a left turn. You’re also not supposed to hit the poles when attempting to parallel park.) I hate driving and I always have. I hate cars breaking down and I hate paying these inflated gas prices.

When I was in college I managed to go a year and a half without a car. It wasn’t too bad, I walked/ biked to and from class and work which were both within ten blocks of my apartment… hell, I even got in better shape because of this. The problem is this was neither an environmental decision nor some sort of protest on the Iraq war, though both issues weigh heavily on my mind. I spent this time minus four wheels because I killed a car that didn’t deserve to die.

In fact, I killed my most favoritest truck in the world. My Truckity, Truck, Truck. I loved that little bastard, took it everywhere with me. I transported everything necessary for a miniature drunken festival I like to call the cabin, got away with a warning with an empty keg in the back, spun out more than my fare share of time and that thing could kick any fence’s ass that gave it a sideways glance. That bastard was indestructible and never needed repair… so I thought. You see, I lost the little oil sticker that told me when it was due for a change, and I in my infinite wisdom forgot that such a thing as an oil change even existed.

One day it occurred to me that I should probably get one, but I was late for my father and sister’s birthday celebration back home. I planned to stay the weekend before going back up to school and figured I’d get the oil change while at home, I probably even had an appointment. Sure enough about a half an hour into the trip bam, bitch went down. I loved that truck. Idiot! A car is a privilege and not a right, if this sounds stupid to you than you have not gone without one for an extended period of time. It’s embarrassing to ask friends for a ride to do things like get a haircut.

I’m writing this not out of devotion but because I got a new old car about 4 months ago, and the thing that I have for that bastard is not exactly love. I learned my lesson, so it gets its oil changed on time. The car I have now is a boat, it’s actually harder to park than my truck was and I fear that I’ll hit something every time I get to my destination. I have a feeling that a fender bender would render the car inoperable. My truck would rip your bumper off, snarl and say “What?’ Add to this the fact that I had to replace a battery that claimed to be good for about another two years a mere two months after it came into my care, and refused to start properly shortly after the new battery and you’ve got one angry owner. The final straw happened yesterday about a half-a-block from my work shortly after my shift ended.

Just as the idea of a Saturday night began forming itself in my mind my car decided to shut down completely. (It probably has something to do with that starting problem that the mechanic said was a figment of my imagination) It happened in the worst place possible with nowhere to push the car out of the way. Worse yet, I found myself in a fairly high traffic area and not even enough power for the hazard lights. I spent nearly two hours wondering where the tow truck was and if the next approaching vehicle would have the presence of mind to realize that I was stationary. As an added kick in the nuts the car refused to release my keys when it was finally moved to the repair shop.

Dejected from the events that had just transpired I spent the evening curled up in the fetal position in some sweats. All I could think about was how my paycheck might as well be signed over to my mechanic. The other though that went through my head was how my truck never would have broken down in this fashion without as much as a warning cough. Idiot! I loved that truck.

Seven paragraphs, bitches!

P.S. Free Bracey Wright

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