The other day, Nik had to drive my car. She hated it. It's unstable in bad weather, it's got blind spots large enough to hide fleets of vehicles, the brakes are spongy, it's got lousy pickup, the back right fender is broken because one time I accidentally drove over a rock and the tire kicked it up into the body and tore it loose, there's a long horizontal crack in the windshield from end-to-end that split the other day before my very eyes as I was driving home with a sound like clinking ice, the heater works rarely, the blower has gotten fixed several times but it still kicks in only when I drive over a bump, and there's a constant chirping from loose body paneling or glass somewhere in the general vicinity of the rear passenger area that's been chirping since 2000, when I bought the car new off the lot, and which at the time I had hoped would go away when the car was broken in. It's broken in now: the thing has over 138,000 miles. For the last few years, I've been putting about 500 miles on it per week on average. She predicted that I'd have to replace it soon. The idea had been occupying space in my own mind somewhere, but I figured I could squeeze another year out of it if I kept giving it gas and oil and not looking at it cockeyed. I wanted to drive it into the ground -- as close to literally as possible, meaning I would have preferred to drive it until it fell apart in a spectacular shower of pieces.
The car had other ideas. It wouldn't start for the trip home after work and left me stranded an hour away from home. The lights, radio, and dashboard instruments came on, but other than that the car was utterly silent. With the holiday and weekend approaching, I didn't see the point in calling AAA. Instead, I got a ride home from Nik and left the car in the office parking lot, and there it'll stay until after the new year.