The fucking car is a fucking car, yanno, it’s not a cow. But there I go, “C’mon Bessie, you can do it, you can make it to the next station,” as I am gently rubbing the dash-board. It’s a piece of machinery…..but I’m begging it out loud even, “please Bessie, get me to the next station Bessie,” pleading with it “C’mon now….clunkety clunkety clunkety, you can make-ity make-ity make-ity.”
I dunno…….or say a prayer to the patron saint of Automobiles . It’s like superstition meets Rosary Beads. It’s so fucked…. and yet there you have it and that’s what I’m doing on a daily basis.
Pffffttt. As if I am ever going to find a date.
No, you’ll have to meet me in the dead of night, so I can park my car and hide it behind the nearest bush like a ninja stealth warrior so they don’t see the shitbox I just pulled up in. Yes,
you sooooo want to date me and my shitbox car. So by date number two over the “safe coffee” I can proceed to cut through the pretenses and tell you my life story in the first five minutes and probably scare the fuck out of you. yeah, that’s the whole weirdness of me, nice to meet you.
Oh what’s that? you wanted to date someone who was more vacuous, and sticks to banal “safe topics” and light and fluffy bullshit so we can never really know each other and just fuck like rabbits til the great sex wears off and we realize we have nothing in common. oh no problem. I’ll just go back to the bushes and drive away. You can tell your buddies it was like “Crouching Tiger Hidden Date” and shit.
Finally got my car inspected today and not surprisingly it failed on some fucking P2181 code, some vague problem with the engine’s coolant system which of course they cannot determine until “they get in there”. Just lube up before you fiscally rape my wallet boys. I have 60 days to fix it. Just in time for the Holidays.
Merry Christmas to me, ’cause I’ll be paying off this car repair til the fucking Easter Bunny comes. I can just forget about buying the Barbie dream house or the Harry Potter Lego sets for the special children in my life.
And to make the holiday season even brighter, I now I have to parade through town Scarlet letter style, with the giant red fucking “R” on my car window.
Too bad my shrink doesn’t do dial-up sessions like those 800 number psychic hotlines, she’d make a fucking killing, ’cause I’m super fucking stressed.