The following is easily the worst essay I have ever written. And I say “I” because even though it was a partner essay, I wrote the fucking thing myself. This is the literary result of a Red Bull addled mind at 3 o’ clock in the morning.
Note: I was actually embarassed to write the first paragraph. The first and last sentences will make me cringe for the rest of my life.
People are like cars; they come in
all different shapes, sizes, colors, and they are always ready for a journey. They
can be quick, slow, large, fast. Fat people are SUVs. Agile ones are sports
cars, like Miatas. Really agile ones are Miatas with an 8lb Fidanza flywheel,
which provides ridiculous throttle response and head snapping acceleration.
People are always dependent on others to inspire and drive them (which is a
hilarious pun in case you didn’t notice), just as cars depend on gasoline to
run and…you know, drive.
Cars are a
part of everyday life. Cars, we use them to travel from place to place, to
transport goods, as well as passengers. They provide comfortable transportation
through any and all weather conditions and perhaps most importantly, they pick
up girls. Because women like men with cars.
Babe-Y Magnet (Oh yeah)
jeeps were downright fantastic. You were 6 years old, sitting in your plastic
pimp mobile, grinning from ear to ear as you crawled along at 5mph. Your ride
was adorned with plastic trim and your plastic rims painted to resemble chrome,
otherwise known as bling bling.
you’d cruise around your block, honking your obnoxious little horn, you could
point and laugh at the kids whose parents cannot afford to buy them one. They’d
hate you and everything you were, but it was ok because YOU WERE LIVING LA VIDA
turned about 8 or so, bikes came into the picture. You got your first awesome
bike either on Christmas or your birthday, and from there on, you pretty much
lived on that thing.
You could do anything on a bike – and
you did. You raced your buddies down the biggest hill in the neighborhood. You
went offroading on sick jumps you made in the woods out of plywood and pvc
piping. And you fell down so many times, it made Christopher Reeve’s horse,
“Eastern Express,” feel guilty.
With a bike, you now had the
freedom to loiter at convenience stores and harass kindly Indian proprietors.
“Don’t leave your bikes in front of the door!” he would let out as you and your
friends proceeded towards the candy section, ignoring him entirely. And when
you went to leave, your bike would be there just as you left it, simply further
cementing your apathy towards anything the Indian gentleman told you.
Four Wheeled Death
are, 17 years old, and absolutely dying
for your own set of wheels. You’ve spent 6 months driving with your parents (or
not), and now you’re ready to take on the responsibility and privilege of being
a licensed driver. It’s been a long educational road. You’ve learned to make fun
of those less fortunate than you. You’ve learned to ignore what people tell you
if it interferes with your whim. And now you’re ready to make fun of Chevy
Cavaliers and break speed limits with open alcohol containers in the vehicle.
flock to you as if you carried discount coupons to Abercrombie & Fitch
and/or Hollister, and the backseat of your vehicle now becomes victim to
various expulsions of fluid, and frequent treatment with bleach and vinegar.
always be there to take a person away from their dull, mundane lives. Dumping
the clutch at 6k will bring a grin to even the biggest frown and really, even
having a stock Mazda Miata in one’s life is all one needs for pure happiness in