CARma

My new car has a chip in the wind shield.  My beautiful new car that is sleek and black and badass.  Has a chip.  In the wind shield.  I am upset.

In all the years I owned Lola the Mustang, the tempermental charlatan of a car who would just as soon overheat as she would take me kindly and stylishly to my destination, (which, at 16, was usually around the block so I could storm off in a cloud of dramatic angst to great effect) I never had any body damage at all.  No scrapes, no dents, no chips of any sort – despite the maniacal teenage driving through the King Soopers parking lot or that one time when Lola may or may not have been used to knock over a porta potty in a parking lot which may or may not have been adjacent to an elementary school which I may or may not have attended from the age of 5 until the age of 11.  

It’s hard to say now what truly happened, and that police report is long gone anyway… besides – what 16 year old can resist the thrill of a red sports car and all the hijinks that are supposed to come along with it?  I’m pretty sure Lola was to blame.

Regardless, my lovely new car that doesn’t even have a name or personality yet, has been wounded.  She is a battered woman walking.  Or driving, as the case may be.  Whatever.

I would just like to apologize to my new car publicy.  May she never again have to bear the karmic reprecussions for the misdeeds of Lola, that red two-bit hussy mustang ever again amen.

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