Although, my car, my lovely 2000 Corolla with way too many miles on her little bum is always fucked. It's at the point where my super busy auto shop knows me by my voice when I call. They know my coffee preference, my job problems, and most of my social life stories. Once I was even invited to their Christmas party at the local pub. Drink up, boys, I've probably covered the tab.
The next time, I promise myself, the next time my car is fucked, that's it. I'm leaving. Thanks for the memories. I'm off to lease my Jetta. Fix this, mother fucking car.
The next time came last Friday, inevitably before the long weekend. Inevitably before my trip to the States. Inevitably right after I thought to myself I've had enough with life throwing me lemons, and thank goodness I have a car so I can drive away from my problems.
I had to take it in. I couldn't afford to lease a car, and I didn't have time, either. And I couldn't ignore the problem because, well, basically it had no brakes. The thing with mechanics is, they know. They fucking know I wouldn't have time to lease a car by the beginning of the week. They know I need to go to work on Tuesday. They know I'm stuck. So they fuck with me. And they fuck with my money that I'm supposed to buy a house with this year. And a cute purse that I'm supposed to buy before that.
It usually goes like this:
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