Despite what your mother says, I’m not mad that you don’t clean me. And no, it’s not that I’ve merely become accustomed to being in a perpetual state of filth. On the contrary, I try to live by a ‘it’s what’s on the inside that counts’ philosophy. In that respect, you’ve never let me down.
If I really wanted to give you critical feedback, I’d talk about how gingerly you drive me. Don’t get me wrong, I hate being crashed as much as the next car, but sometimes I just want to go go go! I’ll be able to stop, don’t worry. But you didn’t ask for that kind of feedback, so I won’t force it on you.
In fact, I guess you never asked me to write in the first place, and it wouldn’t be polite of me not to give you some explanation in defense of my actions. I doubt you’ve heard about it, as it’s a high-value industry secret, but Tesla has been working on a car-to-human translator for a while now. Don’t ask me how I know; cars talk. Anyway, they needed live subjects to beta test the program, and they couldn’t get enough of their own models to sign up, so I put my name on the list. I haven’t noticed any strange side effects thus far, but I’ll keep you posted.
I have so many questions. Why do you take me somewhere and leave me behind while you go drive that two wheeled thing around? If it’s something about me I can handle it, I just want to know. Also, do you ever wish you had a different car than me? I’ve noticed you driving that new one; you can park it on the street all you want, but you won’t be fooling this Forester.
I realize that I’m coming off a tad insecure. I won’t deny it; it’s not like I grew up with any friends or anything. The life of a car is a lonely one. The two old geezers that hang around in this driveway are boring as hell, and parking lot small talk is mind-numbingly dull. Freeways are nice: lots of opportunity to mingle, if you don’t mind the noise.
Here’s another question for you: if you had to be a plane or a boat which one would you choose? And what kind would you be? I think I would be a single-propeller plane, owned by some retiree who flies around the country visiting her grandkids, trying the Pad See Ew in every city she visits, and photographing mountain goats. I’d probably be painted a once-light-purple faded to lilac grey, and I’d have one of those wings mounted on the top with bracers coming down to join my body. I’d have a single row of three seats behind the cockpit, with the rest of my cabin set aside for my pilot’s dogs.
I’m sure you’ll be surprised when you read this, and I apologize for the garbled nature of my thoughts. I’m not sure if it’s that I’m worried about how I’ll come off, or that I just don’t know what to say.
Please don’t feel obligated to respond, but if you want to, just fold up a note and stick it through the leftmost air conditioning vent. I’ll drive the same either way.
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