I have never cared about my car. The first one I owned, a 2000-something Geo Prizm, came to me by way of my aunt when I was 15 and stayed with me until I moved to New York City when I was 24. It got me through high school, college, and the first two years of my post-graduate life, which in hindsight is more than I deserved considering how little care I gave it in return. One day the power steering stopped working, and when I took the car to the mechanic, he told me that I had somehow punched a hole in the steering column and that all the power steering fluid was leaking out. I told him I would just drive it like that.
My current car, only the second I’ve owned, is a 2014 Subaru Impreza that I only ever neglect and complain about. I drive it as little as possible. I hate how low it sits. The front bumper is always threatening to completely detach itself, and sometimes it takes a disconcerting amount of time for the engine to start. A friend was recently sitting in the backseat and sheepishly alerted us to the fact that she had discovered some cobwebs back there.
