Rusted, Rotted, Rolling
Everything starts changing when the cars in your family start shitting the bed.
I have the only car left in my family. Not really though, because everyone in my family has a car. It's just the only car left from my childhood. School, practices, the skatepark, the beach; the 2008 Mercury Mariner has taken me a lot of places the past decade. Now, approaching another inspection date this December, the grey* mini SUV is now sporting a sagging headliner; something I always associated with undesirable odors like secondhand smoke.
And now, as I drive this chattering, grey rust bucket to Manchester to and fro every few days, I start to wonder: how long until it just collapses? I haven't trusted it since about last December, when it decided its exhaust pipe was too heavy, and just decided to drag it on the ground instead of holding itself together like a normal car would.
In all fairness though, I haven't been as good as I should with the thing. I slam the doors. I scream inside of it. I've almost pulled the center console's cover clear off. But all this time, it still chooses to roll; no matter how rusted or rotted it has become.
*My dad always wanted it to be red, so that it could match his "8UCKEYE" license plate (an ode to his favorite sports team), but my mom said no. Maybe that's why they divorced?
I have the only car left in my family. Not really though, because everyone in my family has a car. It's just the only car left from my childhood. School, practices, the skatepark, the beach; the 2008 Mercury Mariner has taken me a lot of places the past decade. Now, approaching another inspection date this December, the grey* mini SUV is now sporting a sagging headliner; something I always associated with undesirable odors like secondhand smoke.
And now, as I drive this chattering, grey rust bucket to Manchester to and fro every few days, I start to wonder: how long until it just collapses? I haven't trusted it since about last December, when it decided its exhaust pipe was too heavy, and just decided to drag it on the ground instead of holding itself together like a normal car would.
In all fairness though, I haven't been as good as I should with the thing. I slam the doors. I scream inside of it. I've almost pulled the center console's cover clear off. But all this time, it still chooses to roll; no matter how rusted or rotted it has become.
*My dad always wanted it to be red, so that it could match his "8UCKEYE" license plate (an ode to his favorite sports team), but my mom said no. Maybe that's why they divorced?
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