Dear car, STOP. The end.

The single worst investment that a body can make: A vehicle. This isn’t a new concept whatsoever but my god, I just can’t stand it. Every month, my car claims insurance, gas, a loan payment, and routine maintenance. Fine, that’s the same for everyone else as well. However, I seem to go to great lengths to punish my car for such wasteful taxes upon my bank account. I hit everything. Obviously, this might not seem like a savory practice considering that I’ll just have to pay once again for the scratch, din, paint residue to be buffed out, but I can’t help it. Something in my subconscious seriously loathes my vehicle. A 2005 chrome Jetta… well, chrome with some yellow from a pillar, red from some bumper (that wasn’t me though!!!) and of course, some white scratches that couldn’t be bothered to accept my buffing efforts. I somehow hate my car so much I even leave it available for theft. Seriously. Yesterday, I lost my keys after getting a wicked amount of groceries. I was so excited because I was going to be on my way into work early and maybe get a minute to chat with an old co-worker from Maryland. Negative. I stepped outside of my door and of course, shut it behind me and started walking down the stairs. F, where are my keys?! People, I had to go back upstairs, out onto my deck, shimmy open a window, crawl over the fence outside my three-story up apartment into my living room, naturally displacing the plants. All these stunts took place while I was wearing heels and a black suit. Nothing is every simple. Then, I couldn’t find my damn keys to save my soul. I checked the usual hide outs: My purse (seriously), my bed, the refrigerator (oh, please! act like you’ve never done it too!) and the bathroom. Fail. Where the hell were these things!?

Exactly how I found them!

Then I looked outside my living room window. Lo, the silver renegades were IN THE DRIVER’S SIDE DOOR. Are you kidding me? They had been chillin’ there for about an hour, waiting for anyone to utilize and take my Jetta. I had a nice oh shit! moment before running down the stairs to save my car. What is wrong with me?

Over last weekend, Nick had to help me buff out a nice yellow bite that a parking garage pillar took out of my passenger side door. This sucker’s gnarly! We used GooGone and some other buffing agent but nothing really helped. The yellow smear is kinda gone but that tell-tale this driver is retarded white scrape still displays my inability to protect my car. I remember feeling the pillar slide softly against my car and thinking, shouldn’t I be hearing something? I suppose it doesn’t matter, the bite is forever a part of my life now. A soft touch from cement sure as hell isn’t anything like a soft touch from that sexy life guard… too much?

I can’t fix my problem. For some reason, I deeply desire to destroy my dastardly car. How to protect once’s car cannot be taught in the same manner that alliteration can. Which is a wicked wonder.

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One Response to “Dear car, STOP. The end.”

  1. Morgan Says:

    Laura, you are one funny chick.

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