Autoerotica

I've never been a big car person. My dad used to drag me to the car convention at the Texas State Fair every year. Not that I wasn't wowed by some cool design every once in a while, but I just didn't have that starry eyed sensation that my dad exhibited for automobiles. When my parents offered to buy me a new car for my graduation, I actually declined, saying that my current car still runs and there's no need. Even after getting talked into it, I didn't have enough interest to know what kind of car I wanted. I thought, maybe a smaller car. I don't need a family sedan and there's no way I'd get an SUV. So I decided to look into a VW Jetta, but after being unable to fit my frame into one, I went for the much larger, more styling Passat.

With my car in the shop, I've been forced to drive in a rental for the past two days in a ghetto Neon. It just feels cheap and smarmy. And it smells. Really bad. I feel the need to rinse off after touching anything in it. Like a warm toilet seat in a public restroom, you know there's been about a hundred people in it and probably another hundred waiting to get in it after you.

Abhorrent physical sensations aside, I've noticed something else in the absense of the VW; there was an unnoticed pride that was attached to my car. Of course I thought it was cool looking and nice and clean and drove great, but I just didn't realize how much I loved my car. There was no sense of loathing to get on the road, like I'm feeling in with the Neon. Everytime I'm about to get in the Dodge, there's an urge to look around and explain to any bystanders that this isn't my car and that I'm not so devoid of taste that I would have ever EVER consciously picked this car out for myself.

I'm so very ready to have my car back from the shop, which by the way has only served to aggrivate my maliciousness towards car repair. I think the experience of dealing with repair shops is actually one of the circles of Hell, somewhere in between the Sowers of Discord and the Judecca.