Ode to my dearly departed car
15 May 2004 at 9:03 am

I spent last night dancing and singing along to Weezer, drawing black eyeliner all over my face, and reading in the bath. I also sewed some buttons back onto my new dress, danced around to The Sounds, watched a few episodes of The Office, and fell asleep around 11pm, preparing myself for the drive that I would be taking to Redding today.

While I was doing all that, and sometime between 8:30pm and 2:00am, my car was stolen. I discovered this when Aaron came to bed at 5am, waking me up in the process, and asked me if I had moved the car.

Nooooo...

Uh, because it's not where we parked it.

Ummmm.....are you sure?

You can go look if you want to.

And sure enough, it was gone, and a new car had replaced it.

I called the police, certain it had been towed, though they had no record of it. Still certain it had been towed, we had the dispatcher send over a policeman to fill out the "Aw Shucks, My Car's Gone" form. Certain I will be getting a notice in the mail saying I owe a thousand dollars because my car's in a lot somewhere, I called Progressive and filed a claim (as an extra fuck you to me, love universe, my insurance doesn't cover theft -- it only covers anything that happens to another car in an accident).

I called my mom at 5:30am to let her know, and she told me to walk around the park to make sure it hadn't been moved -- you know, in case some guy saw my car, a 1995 Toyota Tercel sans back seat and radio, and was all like, "Hey man, let's take this lady out for a joy ride, dude, I hear she goes from 0 to 60 in ten minutes."

It had not been moved.

As I waited for the officer to show up, I noticed a Subaru Outback chillin in a driveway, an Audi wagon parked in front of my building, and a Tercel identical to mine parked across the street from where mine was parked -- this Tercel, of course, had a back seat and a stereo. Why would they not take that one? Why would anybody want my shitbox of a car? It's worth maybe two grand, not that anyone in their right mind would buy a car that hadn't been washed in seven months, hadn't had its oil changed in six, DIDN'T HAVE A BACK SEAT OR A STEREO and with nothing of value in plain sight, unless somebody out their values In N Out cups that are stuck to the floor, pirate stickers stuck to the visor, or the sheet that half covers the BACK SEAT THAT NO LONGER EXISTS.

The only value in that car is the memories. But the road trips up and down the coast, the hundreds of hotboxing adventures, the conversations, the fights, the "Whoops, there's my exit, excuse me please" misadventures, the...the everything. I loved that goddamn car.

Cue video montage of me learning how to drive a stickshift, stalling it a million times before making that first precarious journey around the block, of me sobbing in my car after escaping from my house, of me laughing in my car with friends I no longer keep in touch with, of me petting the dashboard when the magically car starts up, of me hitting the dashboard and cursing the car for the battery dying in the middle of the busiest street in Seattle.

That car's been with me through high school, through college, through jobs, through friends, through boyfriends, and though we didn't necessarily agree all the time about exactly what its job was, we never parted angry.

I'm sorry, car, for not changing the oil when I was supposed to. I'm sorry my dog ate your back seat, but everyone loves a hatchback, right? I'm sorry I don't drive very well and forced you onto many a hill that you weren't prepared for. I'm sorry I didn't love you quite the way I should have, but I loved you all the same.

RIP, Skeeter. I'll never forget you.

one year ago today: "today at work, my first customer was a creepy babyboomer who asked me if i wanted to run away with him. i politely refused."

two years ago today: "you know you suck when you don't even want to read your own entries."

three years ago today: "I could cry!

"

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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.