99 Problems, but a ‘Stang ain’t one.

“Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

I hoped I’d grow up to be a wonderful, beautiful person that had a bunch of respect and friends. I hoped that I’d turn out to be something that makes my parents proud and make some sort of an example for the younger generations growing up. I guess I’ve given up on that certain adventure, and I’m just working to make myself proud. Screw the rest of the world, and what they think of my accomplishments, screw the people that expect more from me than I’m willing to give, and especially screw those that feel like they can step in and change things. Those people don’t understand, those people are confused, those people will be missed.

Take a certain scenario, feeling upset, confused…and well…dumped….on my way to work I decided to exercise the one talent that I have that nobody else seems to understand – the ability to get my car sideways on exit and on ramps. Yeah, okay, to be honest it’s the most reckless thing I could possibly do, I could hit a slick spot and fly off into obilivion, but I do it anyways. In all seriousness, I bet there are lots of things that we do “anyways” that we know we probably shouldn’t. We eat entire frozen pizzas because, well, they’re there. We abuse ourselves at the gym and push ourselves because we thing we’re going to magically become something we’ve seen in a magazine. We try to convince ourselves that the credit card debt that we’ve magically acquired isn’t really that bad.

But it probably is, and it probably was, and it was probably wrong, but we did it anyways…

“Yeah, I know. I’m guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime, and I did it anyways. Shit, why argue? I’m a fucking criminal, look at me.” -Raoul Duke Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

My car has been my best friend, my worst enemy, and my home for the past couple of months. Okay, maybe I exaggerate, I actually live somewhere, but I’ve found myself wanting to stay in the safe confines of the Tard more times than not. I can crawl into the (lack of) back seat and feel like I’m in my own little nap chamber…but then again, it’s never very comfortable. People don’t understand, and I doubt most people ever will. He’s my buddy, he’s my car, he’s damn good looking too. This morning, his good looks and my bad personality got intertwined and my nastiness came out. Not in the form of road rage, but in the form of spirited driving.

I typically go 63 miles an hour down the interstate – for the primary facts that a) I have a really long fucking drive every single day and I like to save gas b) I typically am as tired as I could possibly be and high speeds seem sort of scary to me and c) I’m in no rush, no rush whatsoever. I’m an old lady driver most of the time…but if you “poke the bear” as my good friend used to say it’s on. It’s on like Donkey Kong.

Sitting quietly at a stop light, sippin on awful coffee and listening to some wicked thug rap (baby, cause I’m a thug), a yellow Mustang pulls up aside me. Of course, the Tard, a quiet, unassuming, red BMW doesn’t look like it could smoke anyone, let alone an american Muscle car with balls practically drawn on the hood. With engine revs coming from the second left turn lane, I had a fire in me. I felt bile in my belly start to build up, this joker had a bone to pick with someone, and he was taking it out on me.

To be fair, he was on the inside, the corner had camber, and I have a six speed. This guy, this random yellow mustang guy, had a problem with life, he had a problem with his car, or he just wanted to prove a point. Being the kind person I am, and being the person with 99 problems as well, I decided to stroke his need for asshole driving.

On the interstate we played a few cat and mouse moves, weaving through traffic, me looking down once only because I was forced to decelerate due to a slow moving expedition and realizing 85 miles an hour seems like turtle pace. We weaved, we passed, we stroked egos…but then….we were both smoked. While in front, I saw four angel eyes in my rear view, haunting, ominous, flying up upon me faster than needed to be. A white BMW, a new while 428, an amazing car when you see it flying up next to you…then to look over and see a youngish blonde girl, who looks kinda like you, schooling your ass, and the yellow mustang guy, and flying passed you going at least twenty more miles an hour than you.

The urge to follow was strong, the urge to lift was also there, knowing that there is a line between adrenaline and danger…for once it was a line I wasn’t going to cross, and apparently the yellow mustang guy didn’t either. We both stayed politely in the middle lane, still going at speed, but watched her fly by. I couldn’t help but wonder why was she going so fast, what was going on in her life, what was she running from? What was she running to? Is she ever going to get to where she has to go? Does she even know. I put myself in her shoes, in a new 428, and realized it’s not worth it. Whatever drama is making her push the car to limits isn’t worth it.

The One Series and I tooled along and got to work, in one piece, and of course, yellow mustang guy disappeared into the horizon like a yellow bumble bee into the flowers. Of course he’s probably not considering the philosophical aspect of our adventure this morning, but for the short while the tree of us were engaged on the internet, it seemed our souls were combined. All suffering from some sort of pain, all wanting to get aggression out somewhere, all abusing the South Caroling Interstate system.

Yesterday, however, I had a chance encounter with a very attractive guy in a 135 at Fresh Market…and I had no desire to peel out and try to race. I wanted to know his life story, I wanted to know about his car, I wanted him to chase me, but at slow speeds.


“The sunshine bores the daylights out of me.
Chasing shadows moonlight mystery.
Headed for the overload,
Splattered on the dirty road,
Kick me like you’ve kicked before,
I can’t even feel the pain no more.”

-Rocks Off The Rolling Stones

Pain, yeah, it’s called having to refuel after a spirited day. Kick me again, please.

2015-01-18 14.07.11

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