Girly Girl and her Wheels.
I am irrationally attached to my car. I spend more time in my car than I do with some of my friends. I have an hour long commute (both ways) on good days, up to 2.5 hrs on bad (snowy days). I eat in my car, drink coffee, learn greek, sing along to the radio, contemplate life, work on my story dialogue, plan my day and day dream in my car.

When it had to go into the shop last week to get two new tires, I was lost without it. I had my mum’s car, graciously and generously loaned to me for as long as I would need it, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t my car. There was no funny rattling sound when I stopped at red lights. No ‘Check Engine’ light glared at me from the dash. The heat worked great, the windshield wipers cleaned both sides, there was a cd player. It just wasn’t the same. I know that sounds odd, you would think I would have been ecstatic, but, sniff, I missed my car.

So much so that when I went to go pick it up, I had a stupid grin on my face after I paid my bill and was told it was outside. ‘Hi baby!’ I whispered as I opened the driver door and slid in. I re-adjusted all my mirrors and my seat and then patted the steering wheel lovingly. “Did you miss me? I missed you!”

We’ve been through alot together, Perry (my car’s name because he is periwinkle blue) and I. We’ve driven to Vancouver and back, we’ve secretly eaten chocolate bars and hidden the wrappers, he got broken into once and I was devastated. We’ve been frustrated by traffic, and driven late at night with no radio on and only the sound of his windshield wipers whoosing unevenly. We’re mates! We’re pals! We’re homies! He’s my freedom to get to wherever, whenever.

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