Okay, car. This is it. After months of clashing, after all of the turmoil you have put me through, you have gone for the checkmate, trying your best to end our battles.
Our epic tale began like so many before it. I, desperately in need of a car, was offered the opportunity to purchase transportation. There you were, gleaming in the sunlight as well as a 1992 Ford Explorer can.
When I first met you, I’ll admit that I didn’t care for you. When I pictured my ideal car, it was more of a nice, small convertible and less of a gas-guzzling, 20-year-old SUV. Nevertheless, you were there. I needed to go places, so I didn’t really have much of a choice, did I?
As time went on, though, you grew on me. No, I didn’t ever like you. Clearly you never liked me. Despite this, we had an understanding. I needed to go places; you were the automobile that would take me there. I would drive, hoping you did not explode; you would, in turn, do your best not to explode.
Then, one day, you decided to test out that exploding thing. For some reason, you decided that you were tired of those pesky hoses on your engine and wanted to free yourself from their bondage. All of a sudden, my car had gone from a decent ride to a sputtering mess.
I did my duty as a responsible vehicle owner. I attempted to mend our relationship, replacing that hose and hoping we could just move on. We could have had everything go back to normal.
You had no interest in that. You decided to leave your fluids behind everywhere we go. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, assuming you were leaving a trail of motor oil so that we could easily find our way back home. Looking back, it seems you were just being a really crappy car.
Then, you took it one step further. I was minding my business during one of our daily commutes when, without warning, you decided to light up that brake light on your dashboard. It disappeared, only to light up again just minutes later. It was like you didn’t want me to drive you anymore. You were threatening reenact the movie “Speed” with me playing the roles of both Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock.
After a visit to a mechanic, we learned that you had cracked both of your brake lines and some sort of cylinder in your effort to strand me somewhere. I’ll admit, for a brief second there, I thought about leaving you, finding a nice car that wasn’t trying it’s best to ruin my life. No, I couldn’t admit defeat that easily. Seven hours and a small fortune later, I pulled you out of the parking lot as the mechanic shouted, “Good luck,” knowing full well the battle I was entrenched in.
Well, car, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. No way. After all we’ve been through, there is no way you’re going to win with your stupid brake tricks.
So go ahead. Keep planning, come up with a new plan to get rid of me. Just remember, car, that I have posted this on the internet for dozens of people to read. If something happens to me, they’ll know who is responsible.
Just for the record, I’m talking about you.
I will be the one who comes out victorious, my good friend. Despite your best efforts, we are still together and will be until the end of time.
…or until I find a reasonably priced sedan to ditch you for. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a sensible car.