When I was sixteen, all I wanted was the freedom of having my own wheels. Growing up with a mother who didn't drive, I was first in line at the DMV the morning of my birthday. When I failed the test the first time around (the tester was a Nazi who hated teenagers), I was inconsolable. Two weeks later, when I passed with flying colors, I couldn't wait until I drained every last penny out of my savings account to buy my first car - a Toyota Corolla for $2400. Brand new with automatic transmission, no less.
As I am now paying a repair bill that almost equals the cost of my first vehicle fresh off the showroom floor, I have changed my mind about cars. I hate them. I hate paying for them, taking care of them, cleaning them, insuring them; I hate everything about them. I wish I could live without one but as long as I chose to live in suburbia, I know that's impossible.
The source of my latest rant against America's chosen mode of transportation stems from having to bring my car in three times in the last two weeks for the same problem; a chirping noise that sounds like a flock of chicks has moved in under my hood. I've left it overnight twice (it only makes the noise when the engine is cold) and it has been diagnosed as a faulty belt. Replaced twice, the chicks are still in residence. In addition, the check engine light when on today and the terrorists running the repair shop want to charge me another $100 to diagnose the problem. They don't have to. I already know what the problem is. I bought a car.
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