Ah, my car. A ‘95 Ford Taurus. Sort of old, sort of damaged, yet I love it still.

I always hated this car, until it became mine. It was a family car until my parents bought a new Civic. Since it was barely worth anything for trade-in, they decided to let me use it instead of junking it. I was (and still am) grateful for any car at all.

When I first started driving, I tended to mix up the brake and gas pedals when I got nervous. I hit whichever one my foot happened to be on. Sadly, three days after I got my permit, I mixed them up in my driveway and slammed the front right corner of my car into the bumper of our other one. That corner got very crunchy. A few weeks ago, I was slowing down for a stop light and the hub cap from the same side just fell off and rolled away down the road. Now one corner of my car, as you can see in the picture, looks like a wreck. The rest of it is fine.

Well, not fine. The air conditioning is broken, which means the vent can only blow hot air; it’s the bumpiest car I’ve ever ridden in; and it squeaks constantly. But it drives me from place to place and hasn’t broken down yet, so I love it.

I tend to grow fond of almost everything I own. Ugly things, things that don’t work, things that part of me hates. Their imperfections make them more attractive because they’re my imperfections. They grow on me.

All my car needs is a name. I haven’t been able to come up with a good one yet. My graphing calculator is named Geoffery, my cell phone is named Anathema Device, and my future laptop is named Newton Pulsifer. But my car? Nameless. Alas!