To My Dearest Sister on this most Auspicious Occasion:
This day marks the temporary Passing of the Pile. For generations, siblings have passed on their gently used vehicles to their next youngest of kin as it becomes less and less appealing to potential mates. Eventually this “well-loved” vehicle lands in the hands of the youngest in a state that only induces feelings of pity from dates and friends who have the privilege of riding in it. Some sociologists attribute this behavior to a certain ‘Modern Darwinism’.
Our Beloved Camry was built when our brother was first laying his foot upon an accelerator; permanently cementing the concept of driving was as a terrifying twinkle in my twelve year old eye. Now it is in your hands; you, who only knew the concept of “car” as the large machine that makes mommy and daddy yell at other large machines when it was conceived.
As with all well-loved vehicles, this particular pile comes with a few peccadilloes—ahem. Features, yes features.
1. Rust. Yes the undercarriage contains a bit of rust. This is a reminder not only of the interminable property of time, but also of the wonders of the air we breathe. Ferrous Oxide, the breath of metal. Isn’t it magical?
2. The Minimalist’s Door Handle. The state of this handle is, of course, not due to laziness on my part for not getting it fixed, but a tribute to frugality and adaptation. It also serves as a reminder that sometimes strangers are indeed strange, as I found out when the mechanic in Geneseo declared that his “dipshit son broke [my] door handle… c’mere porkchop!” (‘porkchop’ being his most affectionate nickname for his impish granddaughter).
3. The Dented Rear End. Sometimes we are not the most distracted person on the road. Sometimes that person is *behind* you. In all seriousness, this is why you should never crank your wheel while waiting in traffic for space to turn. Related to this is another feature:
4. The Midsummer Smell of a Spilled Soy Latté. Yes, I could have shampooed the carpet after that accident. Many people would’ve. But though my back pain subsided, this smell persists. Why? It is a reminder of human frailty and the crappiness of Caribou’s soymilk.
5. The Ripped-Out Speaker. Music has a transcendental property which occasionally alters our mood, renders us nostalgic, pensive, perhaps even transporting us to a different time and/or place. Imagine how much that property would be amplified if the music surrounded you. This lack of a drivers-side door speaker is clearly a safety feature.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to cover a deer turd in a thin candy shell (though I hear this is a delicacy served at most used car dealerships). I most definitely vacuumed the entire vehicle before handing you the key, even though this sent perhaps one of the Midwest’s most extensive collections of soil samples into the trash can.
Be good to her, and by “good” I mean better than the absolutely horrendous treatment given to her by your elder siblings. She may be a crapwagon, but by God, she’s our crapwagon.
With love,
Your Sister.
PS: Seriously though, I’ll be back for it next week.
(note: this was first posted to my Tumblr, where I realized that 500-word letters are best dealt with in Wordpress– oops!)
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