As I ran my gentle hands along your imposing curves today, applying soap, water, and a chamois to your body, I remembered how far we’ve come together the last 4.5 years, and I remembered the promises we made to one another during our courtship in March 2004. And, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I brought Toddler into your backseat, a backseat that was supposed to be reserved for colleagues and copulating. Especially when Toddler’s Tiny Bottom brought its close next door neighbor with it, Urinating Vagina, who may or may not have been protected by her guardian, Diaper.
I’m sorry I reneged on my promise that your insides would forever be a “no food” zone. It’s just that I hate screaming…or any loud noise that doesn’t emanate from an electric guitar, really. It’s probably resultant from PTSD that came from sleeping next to an active runway in a war zone before I bought you. So, I allowed some Cheerios to enter your lair. And then, some raisins. Then came liquids. I did limit the liquids to water only, though, remember? Nothing sticky or stinky. But the perforated leather surrounding Toddler’s carseat certainly does not resemble its youthful appearance on the day I made the sales manager stay two hours past closing as I pulled my “I’m leaving unless you’ll give it to me for a couple hundred over invoice” charade. But if it makes you feel any better, your driver isn’t as pretty as he was that day, either.
I know I promised to vacuum your mats every weekend and wash you every time your shine had dulled. But then the city government prohibited it the last two summers…something about a drought. I’m sure Al Gore will save us, and then we’ll go back to leaving sprinklers on all night and bathing every day.
Despite all these failings, could you please continue to take care of me? You see, I care more now about your contents than I did a few years ago. You’ve probably noticed that I tend to dart between 18-wheelers less frequently than I once did, and I don’t think I’ve taken you over 100mph since W’s first term. I know you’re almost to 100,000 miles–the point at which many owners and vehicles consider parting ways. I have no such intention. If you’re in it for the long haul, I am too.
I know you hate it when I talk about your predecessor, but she did carry me 187,500 miles before some emotionally unstable motherfucker stole her and wrapped her around a telephone pole. And then I found you. Let’s stay together another 4.5 years. Minimum. I promise I’ll take better care of you. You’ll see.
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