Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Objects in mirror no longer there

The red jetta has suffered an indignity of reflective proportions. At some point between Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning, someone decided to rip the passenger side mirror off said jetta. They didn't quite accomplish their feat as it was still attached but hanging forlornly down. Mild outrage consumed me as I pictured some young kids walking by the car and picking on mine rather than the others. Was this a not so subtle message to move the car? It had been parked in the same spot for a week. Or was it a bout of drunken vandalism - there is a four a.m. bar just around the corner. Mr. H. doesn't think we were the only ones targeted, which means it was probably kids, or drunks, or drunk kids. But I don't care about those other cars. I only care about my ability to parallel park without the aid of a side mirror.

I also wonder if possibly it was the car trying to pull them plug on herself as Mr. H. and I have been discussing purchasing a newerish car. I guess we should stop having those conversations while we're driving.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

you haven't driven your car for a week yet your bicycle-to-work days remains at 9.

it's obvious you are inducing severe neglect to your vehicles. no wonder they are trying to pull the plug on themselves.

Mel said...

We in Chicago call that public transportation. When people getting killed on bicycles happens a little less, then maybe I'll hop back on the bike. Plus, it was raining today.

Anonymous said...

sometimes, when the urges become too strong to subdue, when I am no longer able to quash those darker impulses and I awake in the predawn hours and find myself next to a red car, always a red car, a blood red car with mirrors, and I am transfixed and horrified and hermetically trapped within a spell of wanton barbarism and a-symmetric impetuosity, then, then the compulsions eke and scratch their way from depths unknown, need devouring reason and shame, creating want anew in a circle of fetid necessity and unholy desire, and the Wing Faerie emerges from behind a tree or a fire hydrant or sometimes a bus stop, with scorn and contempt smeared across her corrupt and withered face, and always those claws, outstretched and snapping.

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