For those of you who know me, you know that my car is one of my favorite possesions, right up there with my camera and computer. Often it comes in first place, seeing as it can take me away- a constant real escape at my fingertips. A thought is all it takes, and I'm out the door and in my car driving down the road with the wind whiping my hair because I have no AC and I don't mind. Radio crap or driving in silence because my tape deck is broken. The dash alight with warnings, check engine and barely able to pass inspection last year but the little garage in upstate NY that I've gone to forever and so has my grandmother, they said they could pass it again this year and the sticker was there, marked July, and it's almost the end of July....
Fuck.
Honestly having it stolen isn't a bad end to the car, but I wasn't done with it yet. We were suposed to drive to California together, me and that car. We were supposed to let her die on the road, where she belongs, not melted for metal scraps and torn apart and sold and destroyed alive. There was life in her! Given, not that much, and she was kinda dangerous to drive anymore... but she was mine.
Have I meantioned I've had that car since I was 16??
It's strange, because while I am very upset about it and terribly stressed over what I'm going to do, I also feel oddly quiet about it. Perhaps "sobered" by it. Or even liberated.
It's that last kick to the ribs when you're down and beaten and suddenly you say, no no Fuck You and you realize you got a lot of fight left in you, come up swinging like a person possessed and scrapping for life, the fury really tapped into and unleashed.
Except I'm not mad. I just sorta feel like I'm watching myself, with a nod, yes- shitty things happen. Yes, you feel like extra shitty things happen to you. No, there still is no option of surrender.
If anything, this just adds to the fire.
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