We're having a Canadian heat wave here... (temperatures above 20 degrees!) It's glorious. I've been eating nothing but fruit. And ice cream. And Dairy Queen blizzards. I actually almost got into an accident driving home, because the damn thing was melting all over the place, and I was trying to lick it all up. Before anybody accuses me of being an unsafe driver, I feel it is important to point out that that stuff was sticky! STICKY, DAMN IT! It could have got on my crappy car seats! Oh! Oh! Another good rant. My car, which for legal purposes, shall be identified by the time honoured tradition of words that sound like the name of the car... Let's call it... Hmmm.... A Stroniach Bland Slam. Okay, so this car, that may or may not be American (I'm not saying), this "Stroniach Bland Slam" sucks dead monkey butt. For lack of a better term. I hate this car so much, I have renamed it "The Albatross". Because the bloody thing hangs about my neck, constantly mocking me, whispering "My brakes.... They're feeling... mushy.... Oh, and the fuel gauge? Mwahahahahaha..... Not gonna work anymore...."
The worst part of this is that the car is not even as old as me in DOG YEARS!!!! It's 3 years old. I have had to completely replace the brakes. Last week, I'm going 80 (in a 60 zone, but that's completely beside the point, plus it was downhill), on a busy main road, and the power brakes and steering stopped working. Good times. Turns out, thankfully, that it was not the fuel pump. (Did you hear that cash register noise?) No, it was the fuel gauge. Although my car said it had 1/8 of a tank left, I was in fact driving it dry. Which causes it to stall. When it's going 80. Downhill. Which may have damaged the fuel pump, ironically. I can actually hear the car snicker at me when I go down to it in the morning. It wasn't a complete loss, though. I got the joy of discovering that my father is giddy with joy at trying to fix cars, something he knows absolutely nothing about. He drove over with a gleam in his eye, muttering about vapour lock, which apparently is a phenomenon affecting cars built in the 1950s... Then he poured a bunch of unidentified liquids into my gas tank. Then he spent 30 minutes trying to start the engine. Then we went for coffee. Then he tried to start it for another 15 minutes. Somewhere during this, I had curled up in the fetal position beside the car and was moaning softly to myself. I still don't know what the hell he put into my car, but I'm sure I'll find out at the most inopportune time.