I think of me like I think of my car. Please, let me explain.
My car isn't pretty. It's a 2001 Dodge - yes, I know, "that was your first mistake," - and it's got a slow leak from the rear driver's side tire, and a donut in place of a tire on the passenger's side. It putt-putt-putts up hills, has a jank radio, and speakers blown like a motherfucker from blasting my music way loud (which I do anyway, despite the fact it sounds like shit.) The hood needs painted to match the rest of my car, and sometimes my brakes squeal. Loudly.
But, my baby can be a centerpiece of conversation - good or bad, it doesn't matter, either way. People either love driving with me or they hate it, either love the fact she has character or will say that she's a death trap. She keeps me safe, stops when she needs to, goes when I tell her to, and although it may take a minute, she gets her happy ass up to 95 miles an hour and just fucking drives (maybe she can get faster? I don't know, I've never tried, although maybe I should...after I replace my tire, though.) She gets me from point A to point B and back *without problems. She has her flaws - the outer driver's side lock is broken, so I sometimes I have go around to the passenger side to unlock her. Her ride isn't the smoothest, but it sure as hell beats walking, and there's way too many cigarette burns on my interior, serving as a constant reminder to quit fucking smoking...but she's been down for me since day one.
She's not for everyone.
Most people look at me and say, "You were a fucking fool for buying that piece of shit," and sometimes, honestly, I feel the same way. But you know what?
She's mine. And at the end of the day, no one can take her from me.
Except you, the asshole who keeps weaving in and out of traffic.
