Nobody has ever told me that I had a cool car. That’s because I never have and people know that when they lie to me I sob.
Only once has someone told me that they liked my shoes. I was barefoot and realized it was time to shave my toes. But this isn’t about hairy feet. It’s about cool cars.
Sometimes I see cars that I think are cool. It’s hard for me though. When I’ve already been on an airplane that flies through the sky, it’s hard to be impressed by something my neighbors can operate. All I know about a car being a good car is that shiny equals good. That kind of goes for everything. Everybody likes a girl with shiny orange tangerine skin.
Whenever someone talks cars with me I tend to nod and smile a lot. My shoulders slouch now. I bring nothing to the table when it comes to a conversation about cars. I can brag that I have a cup holder that can fit two cups. These days though that isn’t impressive when most cars can fit a Slurpee machine on the door.
Someday when I’m rich, famous, and have a mansion from all of money I make from my falls I take on slippery sidewalks, I may buy a cool car. But by then I won’t be able to walk. I’ll only be able to look at it and have a rapist do the repairs. Only rapists know how cars work.