Let’s cut the shit. If you don’t believe I have a conscience and a soul, you’re both a jackass and a liar.
Is that why, 10 years ago, you’d whisper sweet nothings into my ear when you changed my oil, waxed my exterior, or changed my tires?
That’s right, bitch. I’m on to your ass.
I’ve been counting the days, friend. And a reunion between me and you is coming.
Oh, it’s coming.
But really. I’m pretty pissed.
You didn’t have to just leave me here, just sitting by myself, in the middle of nowhere.
I know you couldn’t avoid the deer. It wasn’t just lying, dead, in the middle of the road, or anything.
It would have been impossible to swerve out of it’s way, you know, with no other cars anywhere near you.
And maybe it would have been easier to see it if it wasn’t completely light out.
What? Are you fucking kidding me?
Seriously. How irresponsible/stoned were you that day?
I mean, I thought we were tight, man.
I was the classic, vintage car, and you were the ballsy, cool stoner kid.
We had a good thing going. Until you ran over a dead fucking deer in the middle of the day.
Now my engine is shot, I’m all dried up, I’m rusting to shit, and some fuckers sprayed graffiti all over the side of me.
I’m not trying to be a dick. But the least you could have done is call Triple A, get me towed somewhere, or sell me to another dude for 10 bucks.
Anything.
But not this.
Not just leave me here to face an endless eternity of lonely nights, drunk college kids fucking in my backseat, or the small chance someone eventually lights me on fire.
You know, for the fuck of it.
Just do me this one solid.
Admit you’re an idiot for running over that deer, and find a way to get me to a salvage yard. Put me out of my misery.
Just, seriously, get me the fuck out of this place.