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I own an apple red VW Jetta. The world hates apple red VW Jettas. Apparently, only girls own red Jettas. The only possible merit to this is that other men are very polite to me on the road, but only because they imagine that there must be a supple young woman behind the wheel. For these reasons and more I have come to believe that cars can only cause a person heartache. It started with my sister, who crashed the Jetta, and sent it into the shop. Whereupon it was handed down to me, and I crashed it in the rain, sending it in a second time. Then I was very careful, I made sure I was driving the exact speed limit and I was so very cautious. Then somebody cracked my bumper from behind and drove off. At this point we couldn’t send it to the shop; truthfully, it had spent more time in auto body than on the road. So now I just drive with a cracked bumper. Then some deadhead opened his door and crippled my right rearview mirror. He smiled and walked away. After much deliberation I decided that I would not scratch the hell out of his car with my key. Instead I was forced to take down his car model and license plate so I could make a claim to insurance. The specs are still in my wallet, probably never to be used. If I had lighted upon his automobile with my key I would have had at least a boyish sensation of accomplishment. Instead, I have only more heartbreak, like the trouble with the judicial system. While coming back from a hypothermic bout of camping I was pulled over by a state trooper. Two months later we sped off to my first court appearance. We got a good scare, drove home, and now I’m waiting for my second court day, another two months from now. Luckily my mother’s hair was gray before I started driving, I just couldn’t be responsible for that. I also got a flat yesterday. I
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