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Published June 03, 2009
I am sad. I had a reliable, wonderful Chevy Cavalier for 11 years. His name was Eugene, and he was red. He never gave me a problem, not until I'd had him for 10 years. But whatever happened, it could be fixed. Until he farted a steamy, maple syrup-scented poot right in my face one morning. I knew it was over. I had to put him down, or at least sell him to someone else because as much as I would have loved to keep him on display in my parents' backyard like some taxidermied dead pet, this was not to be.

I got Owen, my black PT Cruiser. My dream car. He ran smooth, and riding in him was like sitting on a couch. But I've had him less than two years and he's giving me problems, bucking like a slow bronco on the parkway, constantly whining via the "check engine" light. What is wrong with you, Owen? Speak to me! No? Spend hundreds of dollars at the dealership to fix you? Do I really have a choice?

Nope. You're a nasty little whore, Owen. But I love you anyway. Why do I let myself get pushed around like this??
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