Don’t mind me, just breaking down my breakdowns.

Cars and I don’t entirely get along. I respect cars. I admire them from a distance. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time utilizing their services as Point-A-to-B People Conveyors. ┬áBut I don’t… get cars. I can start one, fill it with gas, and (usually) keep it between the lines someone so generously painted upon yonder blacktop, but there ends my expertise. Look, I had to call a tow truck the first time I needed a tire changed, alright?

As such, I’ve always hated that feeling of handing my won’t-goable automobile over to a self-purported expert in the field of automotive make-it-go-ness. I feel like a kid who put something into the microwave, and now there’s all this smoke and fluids and oh god I need a grown up, like, right now. All my helpless ass can do is point and cry. So my car goes in, they’ll break down what’s wrong, I’ll nod my head like I have any idea what they’re talking about, and at some point I get to take my car home with a wallet that’s 700 dollars lighter than it was this morning. If he told me that the polarity needs reversing on the neutron flow, I would believe him. I have to. And man, that sucks.

Some have told me that educating myself could alleviate some of this stress. Such a course of action sounds foolish. (Or, at the very least, would require, y’know, work and stuff.) I much prefer the idea that I simply need to find some old people who are supremely unfamiliar with their computers. For if mechanics can exploit me, then I merely exploit someone else. It’s the Circle of Life, really.

That, or I’m shortsightedly lashing out again. Hmmmm…