They're coming for it next week. The shipping company, that is. They're picking up the Ferrari, taking the keys, putting it inside a trailer, and transporting it far away to a new owner, thus bringing to an end my childhood dream of owning a Ferrari. I should be downtrodden; dismayed; depressed. I should take time to gaze at it longingly during the last few days before its departure. I should take it on one final drive with tears welling up in my eyes. I should be browsing AutoTrader for a new one.
But I'm not.
I'm happy to see it go.
The simple truth is that owning a Ferrari for the last year just wasn't all it's cracked up to be. Regular readers of my Jalopnik columns won't be surprised to hear this, as I've complained about the car more than I've praised it. But I've decided to sum up my experience with one more column that addresses exactly why the childhood dream didn't live up to the adult reality.