To celebrate Father's Day properly, I took Dad out in my car and we crashed. Then I stress-cried for two hours, because that's how I solve problems, apparently. The next day, I went to visit my car, and it looked like this:
Dad and I are unharmed, as are the people in the other car, so there's that. But fixing the little green Ford would cost far more than the car is worth...so yeah.
Let's have a moment of feeling sad for my little friend with wheels on.
Okay then. Dad is in Guatemala now, building things for people. I would not trust him if he were left with a hammer and nails unsupervised, even if he were building a board with nails sticking out of it and not someone's roof or house, but there you go.
He left me his car, which used to be my grandpa's car. And as I drove to work yesterday (on fumes, because he'd departed for Guatemala with no gas in his car whatsoever), I realized that I was braking Fred-Flinstone-Style, with my foot dragging on the ground underneath the car. Or at least, that's what it felt like.
"There are no brakes in this car," I thought. "It is just like my car accident, only worse because now I know what it is like to slam into something made of pain."
Luckily, the problem was low brake fluid and was quickly solved. BUT STILL.
Dad had avenged himself by staging an Agatha-Christie-esque murder plot. He is out of the country, which is the PERFECT ALIBI. Also, does Guatemala extradite?
Well, I thwarted his plan. Next step: Finding a new(ish) car. A car that is new to me. A car that doesn't suck. This could take years.
And when Dad gets back home, I'll have to be extra vigilant to make sure I'm not murdered while I hunt for a car.