The Go-Cart is no more. No more will your undercarriage make that ee-ee-ee sound when I turn a corner. There will be no more phone calls from frantic borrowers who can't figure out how to put you in reverse with your ridiculous 'european' gear shift. Now you will live only through the stories...oh, the stories.
There was that one time you were stolen and driven to the border on what must have been a drug run, only to be discovered abandoned like a harlot with a rash in West Valley with a tribal tattoo-like windshield decal and bloodstains on the dashboard. I drove you home that day in tears, fingers barely touching the steering wheel...not because I didn't love you, but because you were full of some other person's chlamydic disgustingness and I didn't know where you had been.
There was that other time when I backed you into a melon truck...remember that? HA. ha. Oh, the farmers market.
And of course, we'll always have the $550 monday.
There were better times too...like the move to DC with SB cross-country, packed in like sardines falling in love.
This time, your airbags engaged. There was a spider on my leg. I hate spiders. I looked down and then I hit the jeep and those airbags, those airbags meant that something really bad had happened. And now, you are gone. And my insurance rates are sure to go up. But you kept me safe even as you eeked out the last breaths into those airbags. Thanks for the memories, GC. You were a squeeky, tiny little bullet and you were my first.
Sometimes it feels like you lose everything in the blink of an eye if the eye is focused on the spider on your leg instead of the road ahead.
Anyone know of a good used car and maybe a chiropractor?