As I watched the Suburban be dragged away from a Texarkana hotel on the back of a tow truck, I felt a little piece of my soul wither away and die, never to be found again. I don’t normally have passionate love affairs with unreliable cars, but the Suburban has been a whole different story. Every time I get behind the wheel, I send out a little prayer to The Car Gods that everything will run smoothly, and I’ll get where I need to go. When it all goes well, my soul is sustained.
Unfortunately, it does not all go well, and I am unfortunately not in a place in my life where I can do anything about it than throw money at people and ask for the best. I don’t have a place to work on a truck, and I also just don’t have the time to worry about it because I’m always on the cusp of Needing To Be Somewhere. Leaving the health and maintenance of what is essentially my daily driver is a truly helpless feeling.
At the same time, I also know that I would also be bitching if I was working on it by myself because that requires effort, and Texas is very hot, and I am not as mechanically inclined as some other folks. Whatever the case, it’s set to be a soul-sucking endeavor.
I want to hear about your eternally impossible and shitty cars. I want to hear about your pain. I’m just in the mood to wallow, and I think it’s time to set up a communal pity party. Let’s have at it.