My Car

My car has been doing some crazy things for two years now, leaving me confused.
This month, I realised why. It has turned 16. My Car is in the prime of its teenage years. So what exactly did my Car do?

One day I found a magazine in it. It had pictures of nude female Cars. Shocked, I stashed it back in before anyone saw me. It took me a while to recover.

Whenever I parked in my building, I left my Car with its tyres facing left. But the next day, it would be facing right, in the direction of a slender young female car preening nearby. This happened a few times.

On its fifteenth birthday, my Car demanded that I gift it a set of denim seat covers. It said it would only wear denim. Correction. It said that I should only fund the denim. Not choose it. “You won’t know the current styles,” it told me.

My Car would scrape or clang against even a small bump on the road. I didn’t get it. One day I pulled over by the side and looked under it. Its Adam’s apple had gotten bigger.

The other day I decided it was time for a man-to-man chat about life and temptations and the need to enjoy yet not be reckless. I put my arm around the car steering and said, “You are 16 now and I was thinking maybe we should talk about a few things.” It was chatting up the slender female car and was part upset, part embarrassed by my presence. “There’s no need, I know everything,” it said, blowing smoke rings through the exhaust pipe.