Love letter to my piece of dirt automobile

By June Bunch, Opinion Editor
kbunch@unca.edu

September 23, 2015

Dear Stella, you piece of dirt automobile,

You’re the longest relationship I’ve ever been in, don’t give out on me now.

I know I’ve given you troubles, maybe forgotten to change your oil or vacuum your seats, but you’re my adventure comrade.
Come on, sweet seats, take me back.

I can’t stand seeing you with someone else, namely, the mechanic. He can fix you, sure, but he can’t love you like I can. I know every inch and scratch and temperament about you.

I know your side mirror, dangerously held onto the driver’s door with wire, super glue and dried-up pens, and I even know how it got there – because you liked to live on the edge.

Only I can tell that story with you, about how we saved a squirrel’s life but hit a pole as a result.
Or what about your dented, half-functional rims? Scarred from those times that you went off the edge and drove gracefully into the curb? You always thought you were a Jeep in Saturn’s clothing. You are. At least I know that.

I even memorized your scent; burnt coffee, cigarettes and spilt mysteries.

What else do you want from me? What do I have to do to win you back?

We’ve seen America together by now, about 187,563 miles of it, according to you. And you know me better than any non-machine outside in this town. I just want to work things out.

After all, you were my first. Admittedly, once or twice I drove dad’s Mustang, but you’ve been the apple of my eye since I traded in that pesky permit for a license.

You helped me advance from stalling at stoplights to finally taking freeways and long, curvy roads.

Yeah, we started out lazy on flat lands, but we both slowly made our way up mountains. It was always a journey, you, with your horrible mountain pick-up chugging on, and I, with my sweaty fits, running downhill to find you coolant when you were in need of car Gatorade.

Admit it, I’ve always tried to be good to you.

And sometimes, I’d even take you out to the premium gas pump, get you that top-shelf octane.

Even when I wasn’t so great, loving someone else, asking you to chauffeur me to them, you knew you were the only one for me. And I’m sorry for that, by the way, I’m so thankful you’re the forgiving type.

All-in-all, I like to think we’ve perfected the art of partnership:

I deal with it when you get heated.

You deal with my spouts of road rage, my disgusting trash storage habits and my panics to escape.

I’ve learned to quench your constant thirst for oil.

You’ve learned to indulge my constant hunger for your gas pedal.

Let’s keep learning things about each other, let’s keep seeing things.

Let’s leave our lives in the dust.

Stop trying to get with the mechanic, get along with me instead.

Here’s to another 100,000 miles.

Love, June.

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