I got my car back last week. Guess what their solution was? They replaced all the lines in the anti-lock brake system.
They replaced all the lines. The lines. The...nerves.
I am not creeped out. Well, I am, because I think my car is haunted, and that might mean my body is too. (You know, I haven't seen an exorcist yet, I just realized.) But I'm not creeped out because after years of interpreting my life through the actions of my car and my toilet, I've decided that I was right at age 8 to believe that the universe is in conversation with us. Our cars and our toilets, and maybe our stomachs, are characters in our lives, and they know more about us than we do.
Then I left my car's lights on all day and the battery died and I had to call my mom to come jump me, but neither of us had jumper cables, so my mom called her auto club and plotted with me about how we had to make it look like she was driving my car and asked me later if I had signed her name on the guy's paperwork, as if he was going to type my scribble into his database when he got home in his sedan with its Auto Rescue decal above the gas-tank door. Not that I wasn't thinking the same thing.
And the car started and I thought, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Or maybe the dead battery was the ghost in me calling me a dimwit. For leaving the lights on all day.
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