I hate my car. It’s now 13 years old and in true teenage fashion, is petulant and makes weird noises that I don’t understand. I don’t know sh-t about sh-t so every time something seems wrong I have to contact a new mechanic and try to not vomit-laugh while I describe the problem in 36-year-old frightened woman fashion: “So, when I yard the wheel to the right it makes a high-pitched squeal like a 90’s modem crossed with that noise you make when you jab your cornea with a mascara wand. I googled it and it’s probably the transmission-tron, right?” All the money, they take all the money, and your savings account, once filled with dreams of Miami and a new laptop and every eye cream Sephora sells, is as hollow as your soul. I live in this perpetual state of fear and angst because booting around in the Probable Flat Tire OR Rusted Alternator Derby is still better than the alternative. Mother. F-cking. BC. Transit.