Driven to Despair

Remember when you bought me? Damn, you couldn’t keep your hands off me.  You wouldn’t stop staring at me.  There was pride in your eyes.  I swelled your ego. I defined you.  Gave you status.  You took every opportunity to show me off to your envious friends.  In return, you vacuumed me, lathered me, rinsed me off and then waxed me at least once a week (with a lot of ceremony).  You used to call me your “baby” and even parked me as far away from other cars whenever you could like I was some untouchable royalty.  

Now, all I get is a bucket of water casually tossed over me once a month and only after another passing teenager has cheekily scrawled ‘Clean me’ across my windscreen and run off.  God bless them.

I have tried getting your attention in the past couple of weeks by flashing my oil light.  I thought if anything would get your attention it would surely be that but do you care?  Do you heck.  You know that rattling noise I make whenever you are driving me?  That's the sound of betrayal.  A cry for help.  

Instead of getting out your wallet and booking me in with Mike the mechanic for some much-needed repairs, you instead choose to badmouth me to my hearing every flipping time you get behind the wheel.  Calling me an old banger, saying your friends have bought the latest model and that I move like an old lady but somehow I still miraculously manage to get you from A to B.  Not nice.  Not nice at all.

So go ahead, keep neglecting me.  Just know I’m one journey away from spontaneous retirement…And I will do it somewhere very, very far from home…preferably a country lane with no phone signal.

Dean Arutoghor ©