A Hot Ride

I've never understood people's obsessions with their cars. While some treat vehicles better than they would a child, I've twice told AAA that I drive a Corolla instead of a Camry, because all I could remember was that it started with a "C." It's a good thing I don't care, because my car is in sad shape. First, it's covered in enough sand to be mistaken for a desert -- a desert with cupholders. Second, the front two hubcaps are missing, thanks to Mexicans with sticky fingers, presumably from enchilada sauce. (Not to stereotype, but people in Mexico eat a lot of Mexican food! And steal things.) Third, the right side of my car desperately needs a paint job because of the dumbbell that hit-and-ran me.

For these reasons, I'm now the ugliest one on the road, which is really no different than the other times when I'm the ugliest one on the couch. It stands out as crap, especially in the parking lot I share with legitimate business types. On my lunch break, I stop to get a book from my car, when a coworker pulls up beside me. Getting out of the car, he wipes his brow with his sleeve and says, "I gotta remember not to drive the black Mercedes in this heat." Oh, isn't he a fancy bigshot? Subtly bragging about his expensive ride while implying he has others to the intern making minimum wage with the scratched-up auto. Take that black Mercedes and drive off a cliff!

After he walks away, I do the only thing I can do: urinate on his car. No, just kidding. I do key it, though. No, just kidding again. But I should after the way he so callously keyed my heart.