Dear car, otherwise known as Valhalla, the egocentric Viking,
Your bumper is lopsided and has dried patches of super glue from when I made sure that no one would steal my evolve fish THIS time (humpf). Sometimes your AC works, sometimes it doesn't, and you will make sure that the days in which it doesn't work it's 98 degrees outside. Only three or so radio stations come in at a time, and two of them are always playing the same song. You beep every time I open the door, no matter WHAT, even if everything is in place off and secured. You have purple stains on the trunk from some berries that grow on the tree under which I park you and birds always poop on your windshield. You go from zero to 60 in one hour and sometimes I'm afraid that you'll fall apart on the parkway and I'll fly into a tree. And hey, remember the coil pack trouble you used to have where you shut off any time you were stationary for more than 30 seconds? Shit, that was fun. Your gas gauge is a perpetual liar, telling me that you're full and then dipping down to a quarter left in a matter of miles. The rear speakers are fuzzy unless you tune the bass just right, so absolutely no one is allowed to touch the settings but me, your master.
You are the worst car ever and I can hardly believe that I've put up with you for this long.
But I love you, so don't break down or fall into a ditch or anything. Because first cars are torrid love affairs.
Observation: I can't see a thing.
- Deals on wheels.