BELLEMOBILE

"Drive. Drive," my father said as I paused behind the wheel of my new-used car. Next to us in the parking lot, the salesman who bought my old car was scrawling with a yellow marker on the windscreen of my reliable friend.
My friend often peed on me and smelled as if someone had forgotten a pound of ground beef underneath the driver's seat for a week, which ? I kind of had. The sunroof leaked, an excellent trait for a car in Summer and the CD player had quit in the previous century. On the way home from the used car lot. Still, I sniffled as I drove off. I'm pushing 53 and I own stock and I cried over a collection of pistons and Chrome bumpers.

There are two types of people: Those who name their cars and those who do not. I'm a namer. The Millennium Bellemobile and I greet you, from wherever she may be.