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So you all know how emotionally involved I was with my old car, Speedlime the trusty-yet-cursed 1995 Plymouth Neon. Yeah, dammit, I drove a Neon. For 11 years. Towards the end it became something of a point of pride, owning such a comically crappy car, but I loved my Speedy. She was the car of my youth, the car of seven accidents only one of which I caused, countless trips to Amherst and back with a Siamese fighting fish in a Nalgene bottle balanced on the parking brake, and one epic drive across the country with a mad Bermudian who was wrecked on cough syrup.

That poor car really was cursed-- she attracted hit-and-runs like no other car I have ever known, and narrowly escaped being totalled once when a big ol' delivery van bashed most of her hinder off. Speedy and I reached the end of our road together a couple of years ago after her air conditioning broke for the third time in three summers-- but I sold her to a very nice guy in my neighborhood. He kept her running and I used to wave to her every time I saw her on the street. Today I got this email from him, and I would like you all to join me in a moment of silence for my poor noble Speedlime, who has met a really very appropriate fate.

"Dear Petra,

It's been a while, and I'm not sure if you still use this e-mail address, but it's me, Patrick Benedict, the guy who bought "Speedy" the beloved 1995 neon from you. I thought about writing you about a month ago, when she passed 100,000 miles, but didn't get around to it. You should know that she has been completely wonderful, and totally incident-free. In short, the BEST car I've ever owned, by a large margin...

It is extremely painful :( to let you know that on Tuesday this week, a very large section of a tree fell on to speedy when she was parked in the street in front of my apartment -smashing her back window, cracking the windshield, and caving in a large section of the roof over the rear seat...
If I can fix her, then I certainly will. If not, then perhaps it's fitting that she leave me this way: never having caused me an ounce of trouble and owing me absolutely nothing. Taken from me while still totally innocent :)

In any case, you might want to take a moment of silence for the car that was so good to both of us, in the event that she moves on to the highway in the sky."



*sniffle* WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Comments

[info]hahathor wrote:
May. 17th, 2007 10:32 pm (UTC)
I'm raising a shot of Caol Ila to Speedy right now.

My condolences. She was a good car, and she'll be missed.
[info]rattleback wrote:
May. 18th, 2007 12:44 am (UTC)
Well, shit. A paid-up car that doesn't cut up rough is special in its own right, and one that stays that way for someone else is very special indeed.
[info]captrenault wrote:
May. 18th, 2007 03:16 am (UTC)
.

I've been there. I feel your pain. I'll tell my Lola to meet up with Speedy, to overheat together on that great traffic jam in the sky.
[info]currentlee wrote:
May. 18th, 2007 03:16 am (UTC)
oh, poor speedy!
rip, speedlime.
[info]artnouveauho wrote:
May. 18th, 2007 05:10 am (UTC)
Ah, sweet Speedlime... your inside smelled like mildew, and you didn't even have automatic windows, but you were a lady through and through. Farewell, small shiny red chariot of awesomeness! At the rising up of the sunroof and at its setting, we shall remember thee.
[info]lizs18 wrote:
May. 18th, 2007 04:14 pm (UTC)
Ohhhhh, that's so sad and that email is so touching. My condolences.
[info]speedlime wrote:
May. 18th, 2007 06:27 pm (UTC)
Awww, damn, all these sweet comments are making me get sniffly all over again! I propose a memorial hearing of Adam Sandler's "Piece of Shit Car," but it has to be the censored version because all those odd horn honks are actually funnier than the original song. :)
[info]grimclown wrote:
May. 20th, 2007 04:23 pm (UTC)
While I was traveling in Asia, sitting on my private bungalow on an island in Thailand in 1990, my father wrote me a letter. (Uncharacteristic of him, I'll have you know.) It was to inform me that our 1965 Ford Falcon had just been towed away, never to be seen again. It had had a similar life. He said he had a tear in his eye as he watched through the window, it disappearing down the street. I miss that ol' death trap.