jwalkernet

Is that like an Eastern thing?

Fuck cars. I hate them. I don't understand them. Maybe I hate them because I don't understand them. Whatever, I don't care. Fuck 'em.

I know, I'm a guy. This means I should like cars. Not just like them, but love them, love spending countless hours talking about them, watching them on televisions, taking them apart and putting them back together.

Well, not this guy. With me, I think of my car like the life support system on the starship Enterprise: you don't even notice it until it stops working.

I had a flat tire on the way home from work. BLAM, I'm stuck. This is the second flat I've had in my life, and this one was no more unpleasant that the previous one. If anything, this one sucked less than the last one. Last time, I was stuck on the side of the freeway. This time, I managed to pull into a parking lot. So there's that at least.

But it was unique. In my previous five (almost six) years of driving experience, any time I had any kind of car trouble, the first thing I did was call my mother. Not to necessarily get her to come help me (though that was the case sometimes), but just to let her know what happened, where I was. It became comforting, the conversation we would have. And it was almost always the same.

"Hey, mom."
"Hey."
"Well, my car is messed up. Again."
"::frustrated sigh:: God, what now?"

Then I'd tell her the problem. We'd both attempt a diagnosis, despite both of us completely lacking in any sort of car knowledge. I'd wait either for her to come and get me or the tow truck to arrive, and when we got home, she'd always say the same thing: "Well, J....some days you eat the bear, and some days the bear eats you." Only she'd pronounce "bear" like "bar," just like Sam Elliot in The Big Lebowski (which I'm almost certain she never saw, strangely enough). Then she'd remind me, "Shit happens, J. You can either laugh about or cry about it." I'd usually try to choose the former.

But I can't do that anymore. I had to fix the tire myself. I couldn't call my mom for help. I couldn't call her to tell her where I was, that I'd be late coming home. And when I got home, there was just my empty, dirty apartment. It's harder to laugh about the shit that happens when you're alone.

Fucking cars. Fuck them all.

I took your love for granted / And all the things you said to me