Until I hit fifteen, I had ZERO interest in cars. My parents just drove me everywhere, I took the bus to school, and I was old enough to appreciate the idea of sitting there and not having to do anything while people exert some degree of effort to get me places.
And then my friends started to drive, and suddenly stuff started happening. Thus, I started to try to prove to my parents that I was worthy of the great car blessing. Like, knowing all about car servicing in Ringwood, or…knowing why a car needs a log book servicing. That one slid in my brain and fell out the other ear within the space of about an hour, but I was still able to relate the information at dinner one night, so…mission accomplished. My sister asked me to pass the potatoes, and I just casually slipped in while I was doing it that cars are recommended to have a log book service every six months, or even 10,000 kilometers, whichever one comes first.
Yes. Perfect. My flawless plan was indeed flawless.
Now I’m eighteen, no car, no prospects, and I guess I’ll just shrivel up and die while my friends all go out to parties and clubs and whatever. A bunch of my guy friends all went to Club Rattler because that new DJ is playing, Boney Mac. They say his skeleton makeup is insane, like…it’s almost like he’s a real skeleton in glowing paint, but I’ll never know, because only Darren has a car, and they already had seven people in it and I couldn’t fit, so I missed out.
But…I know about car repairs done near Ringwood. I have knowledge, about car things. By my calculations, that should have caused the universe to just kind of hand me a car by now. So bogus.