You never made it easy for me. You were born a truly dreadful 1991 Pontiac Grand AM LE, and then you were sold to a woman who ran your engine out of oil at 50,000 miles. And then, in 2008, you became mine; my third car.
Much unlike your aftermarket stereo, I'll always remember the features you didn't have. I'll always remember your lack of a trunk-release button, forcing me to to get out of the car and get yelled at by police when picking someone up at the airport. Nor will I forget your passenger-side door lock that would not obey the electric lock, constantly annoying my company when I asked them to manually lock you. Nor will I forget that you contained my very first slushbox, and with it sucked my soul dry.
I know now that every time you broke down or broke my spirit, you were trying to remind me of something. The time we picked up my date, a woman who drove a brand-new Mercedes-Benz, you reminded me that I bought you out of necessity, not desire, and that I didn't come from money. When your heater core sprung a leak while on another date, you reminded me that I was not worthy of romantic attachment. When you broke down on the way to and from an interview for an internship at NASA, you reminded me that I should give up on my career dreams and aspirations.
And looking back on it, your God-forsaken N-body roots reminded me of my God-forsaken proletarian roots. As I watched you foolishly attempted to provide Driving Excitement, you taught me to never aspire to greatness and, unlike you, accept my lot in life.
But the truth is, I rejected your lessons. Though our relationship was based around my need for basic transportation, I devoted my life to never, ever becoming as sorry an excuse as you.
Using you as a benchmark of who not to be has carried me far in life.
The last time you broke down, I finally said "screw it" and donated you to charity. Why I pushed your sorry excuse for life onto the less fortunate I'll never know, but I hope they painted you in a rival team's colors and smashed you with hammers.
Rot in hell and good riddance.
You beat the hell out of me, and made my life immeasurably worse because of it. The only gift you gave me was limping away on the flatbed truck and ensuring I'd never have to endure your malaise ever again. Yet you owe a debt to me; the $350 tax deduction I received from your charity auction is not appropriate restitution for the pain you caused me. You took so much from me, and reminded me daily.
To you, my third car, a hateful red 1991 Pontiac Grand Am LE, I will never apologize.