To my car:

Thank you so much for messing with my head tonight. A Halloween joke, right? Scaring the shit out of your owner? Because, you know, I just love it when I’m sitting in front of a Burgerville, chowing down a bunch of oh-so-fricking-good sweet potato french fries and staring at the poster of their pumpkin milkshake and thinking yeah, my hips can take that baby, ah yeah, give me some of that cream, and turn the key…and nothing happens, I kind of freak out.

When I’m in Vancouver, of all places. When I should be delivering a present to a friend’s newborn baby. With my tot and husband in the car — because it’s really easy for me to get around alone, but with two kids a three year old and a man? You’ve got to be joking.

When the only person I can call for a ride is my father-in-law. I’d have never heard the end of it. And he might have made me promise to tell him my psuedonym.

So, thank you even more for starting again — even though the fifteen minutes you didn’t do anything but flash a light at me when I turned the key almost made me cry. And, okay, I didn’t really mean it when I said I was going to $#@% your #%$ing starter all to #$@$ and crush your little alternator like a #%$#@!%$ melon. That was just a joke, I swear!

So, please start tomorrow. I promise I’ll take you to the nice mechanic, and he’ll give you a lovely lube job and check out your wiring and all that.

Sincerely,
Meljean