My car begs me to clean it.
The hazy fog that glazes over my window when it needs to be defrosted brings out a secret message that my sister wrote with her finger months ago, it says "Windex me."
Everytime I think about cleaning it, I tell myself, "You don't have time to do this today, you're getting a new car soon anyway and it's pretty much freezing outside-- and remember that time it stranded you on the Parkway? Well this can be your payback."
Littered on the floor are pieces of lottery tickets, empty cigarette boxes, the crumpled cellophane wrappers of sour gummi worms and skinny Red Bull cans with straws sticking up out of them. Evidence of my gambling, smoking, sugar addictions.
Anyone who's brave enough to drive with me (I crash a lot) is confronted with a warning before flick the unlock button to let them in--"Ok, so my car's a mess, it smells like pizza and I don't even know where the smell is coming from, so just be prepared."
Usually that's enough to get a "You want me to drive?" and of course I say sure.
My car's fairly dangerous too.
One of my headlights flickers off and on occasionally, my windshield is cracked
and I got lost once trying to find route 70. Because I was on it.
"Dad! My check engine light went on! What do I do?!" I yelled into the phone yesterday.
"Well, you're probably due for a new car," he says calmly. "How old is that thing? Fifteen years?"
"I don't know 1995 or 1996?"
"Yeah. It's time for a new one," he says.
The hazy fog that glazes over my window when it needs to be defrosted brings out a secret message that my sister wrote with her finger months ago, it says "Windex me."
Everytime I think about cleaning it, I tell myself, "You don't have time to do this today, you're getting a new car soon anyway and it's pretty much freezing outside-- and remember that time it stranded you on the Parkway? Well this can be your payback."
Littered on the floor are pieces of lottery tickets, empty cigarette boxes, the crumpled cellophane wrappers of sour gummi worms and skinny Red Bull cans with straws sticking up out of them. Evidence of my gambling, smoking, sugar addictions.
Anyone who's brave enough to drive with me (I crash a lot) is confronted with a warning before flick the unlock button to let them in--"Ok, so my car's a mess, it smells like pizza and I don't even know where the smell is coming from, so just be prepared."
Usually that's enough to get a "You want me to drive?" and of course I say sure.
My car's fairly dangerous too.
One of my headlights flickers off and on occasionally, my windshield is cracked
and I got lost once trying to find route 70. Because I was on it.
"Dad! My check engine light went on! What do I do?!" I yelled into the phone yesterday.
"Well, you're probably due for a new car," he says calmly. "How old is that thing? Fifteen years?"
"I don't know 1995 or 1996?"
"Yeah. It's time for a new one," he says.