Dear Vehicle Owner:

I think it is about time that we get a few things clear, and I don’t mean my windshield. I am not satisfied with the way you are treating me.  First of all, you are driving me too fast. I am not a sports car. I thought for sure you were going to rear end that little Subaru in front of us the other day. It was so afraid it changed lanes. Please slow down! I do not want to end up in the junkyard before my life is half over.

Then there is the matter of hygiene. When is the last time you took me to the car wash? You can’t remember, can you? I am filthy. It is embarrassing. When I was parked next to the shiny new Ferrari in the parking garage, I could not even blink my lights at her as I knew her motor would be turned off by my appearance.

My interior is also a disgrace. I look like a motor home. What is all that stuff in my cargo area? I’ll tell you what it is: junk, pure junk — ice scrapers, sun shields, umbrellas, sunglasses, paper towels, CD’s, old receipts, broken tools, and empty paper cups. Stuff rolls around in my cargo area gathering dust and giving me an interior complex.

The gas you have been pumping in me gives me indigestion, always from the cheapest gas station you can find, always regular, never premium. Am I not worthy of a little special treatment once in a while? You just take it for granted that I will continue to be dependable regardless of whether you keep my tank full or my oil changed. One of the days I am going to break down and leave you stranded. That will serve you right. R

My tire treads are starting to get a bit worn. It is difficult to live life in the fast lane, never knowing whether I will have a blowout. Do you ever check my tires? Do you want to have to call the Emergency Road Service again to rescue us on the Interstate? All the other cars drive by honking at me and shaking their tailpipes. I feel like such a loser.

Have you even read my user’s manual? What if one of my dashboard warning lights came on? You would not have the faintest idea what to do and would just keep driving. I can’t tell you anything. You will not listen to warnings. When you burn up my engine maybe you will be satisfied.

All you do is play my radio. Do you ever consider that I might want to listen to another station? If I try to change the dial to something soft and soothing, you change it right back. You never listen to Car Talk or Bumper to Bumper. That is why I try to freeze you to death with my air conditioner. I am hoping you will get the message.

Life is a bore, spending every day in a parking garage, never going on a long road trip or seeing any sights. Other cars have been to California, Florida, or Yellowstone. I have nothing to brag about, no national parks, no trips to the beach or mountains, not even a getaway at the race track.

You are going to wear me out and then trade me in on a younger model. I know your plan. I give you the best years of my life and what do I get in return? Hoodwinked. I’m getting old in car years. But I might as well shut off my windshield wipers and blow my horn. I suppose there is nothing a car can do about feeling used.  

Copyright 2014 Sheila Moss