I’m tempted to ask clairvoyants and necromancers why I’ve been having so much misfortune lately, in particular, with my car. I drive a second-hand blue Volkswagen Golf, 2001 model.
And as usual, the problem with second-hand cars is that they are destined to be in the car repair shop, which heralds bright shining sheets of bills. Impressive costs! And I still haven’t told you about the tax and the insurance bills.
Anyway, the debts are already neck-deep. Thank God my father’s there to give me a hand with the bills. Siyempre, pahiram muna, hindi na ako puede ilibre ni Papa. And he also helped me to indentify car parts. Yes, identifying car parts. I don’t possess the gift, not even the interest, to identify car parts and its features. I have this car for more than a year and I still don’t know much about it.
I don’t dig car talk. I know that every testosterone-driven male humanoid is built in with this feature. But I don’t have it. Almost every guy in this planet is fascinated with cars- its engine, accessories and everything else about it. It’s a mystery to me.
We can talk about politics, books and music, but not my car. All I can say is it’s blue, it’s a Volkswagen, and it’s fuel is diesel.
My goodness! A car is really like a high-maintenance b*tch! It’s the inanimate kept mistress of a man. It sucks almost all of my life and energy, and all the life in me.
For some reason, I named my car Golfie, and I refer to it as a ‘him’ and not a ‘her’. It’s not because of homoerotic tendencies, but because I’d like to think of it as a pet; like a dog.
As of now, it’s almost ok. I need to fix the breaks and buy new tires. But it runs smoothly and faster now. It’s really ready for my Road Trip
. But with all
my current bills and debts, I might delay it for another year. Italy
I should’ve bought a brand new car. But don’t tell Golfie. Baka magtampo. Mag break-down na naman, gastos pa ulit yun!