My Car is a Jerk

I won't spend any time berating myself for not posting nearly as much as I should. Although I do feel guilty. Very guilty. And I've been really busy, so I shouldn't feel guilty. I mean, it's not like that many people read this anyway. Not that you don't count, Mom. You do. Very much so. I'm doing the berating thing, aren't I? Oh well.

I complain about being old alot, which may seem ludicrous, as I am still in my 20's (not for much longer. Eek!) But I do feel old. Mostly because I react to change with the panicked snarls and quivery-kneed fear that is common to the elderly when encountering something unwanted and unfamiliar. Case in point: my car.

My car is one of these relatively new ones where there is a little electronic display that regularly tells you what your car is thinking. At first, this was great. I mean, this is a pretty novel concept, seeing into the mind of a car. And I want my car to be happy, I do. Well, did, until it started being mean to me.

At first my car was happy. In lovely green letters it proudly proclaimed it's mileage. Moreover, it was nice enough to let me know how many more miles it felt like it could drive before it needed to be fed again. Very nice indeed. That's back when things were civil.

Then, I made the grievous mistake of allowing my car's gas tank to become slightly less than a quarter full. Immediately, it beeped at me. Then started flashing in orange angry letters "Fuel level low!!!!!" (I might have added a couple exclamation points.) Anyway, after continuing to drive for a couple miles, a picture of little gas pump also began flashing. I can only assume that the car, angry about being driven further after expressly communicating the fact that it would like some gas, figured I needed a little help. "You must be special," thinks the car, "perhaps you do not know what fuel is. Allow me to show you a picture of what I would like. See? Do you recognize this? I NEED YOU TO PULL ME OVER AND FIND ONE OF THESE THINGS IN THE PRETTY PICTURE."

"Yes, yes, I know." I tell the car. It continues to flash. What is it about a flashing light that makes it seem so much more urgent? "Hmm," I think, "Well the light is turned on, I probably have 40 miles left. Uh oh. The light is flashing. It must be serious. I better pull over."

And I did. I allowed myself to be manipulated by a stupid machine. Since then, the car has realized its power and delights in frightening me with such warnings as "Tire Sensor Fault" -translation: "You're gonna get a flat tire, careen out of control and die. Ahhhhhh!!!" Or "Engine Oil Change Soon"- translation: "You better give me oil or I might just blow up on you. I can do that you know. Squeeeal...just kidding Gotcha! Ah ha ha ha!"

I'm surprized that a little orange picture of my car in flames doesn't flash on and off.

Mean car.

Cyndi