dear star-wars III preview,

why do you have to look so cool when i know how much you’re going to suck?

♥ ,
- a.

how does one know, that is, how can one be certain — when its time to put the racehorse out to pasture? (or worse, still: lay the gun to the muzzle.)
when the hour has arrived for an aged prizefighter to make one last sad circle around the ring and hang up his gloves?

or rather, to speak plainly:
do i really have to ditch the Malibu?

la caja ruidosa: the cross bones of the crosswalk, The Great Blue Shark (well “quasi” great and “mostly” blue) that brought us rumbling and storming, on an angry machine oil cloud into this city — dark and terrible like a post Apocalyptic nightmare — the kind of car mad max would drive through the some kind of war and/or famine ravished wasteland. all steel and spark plugs.
i’m talking about one poorly spray painted 1967 Chevrolet Malibu, purchased in Portland, Oregon for $500 dollars from a gap-toothed redneck with a faded green swastika tattooed on his ear lobe. (incidentally, our old town Nazi included the vanity license plate “SXE 500″ which i assume to mean “sexy” and not “straight edge.”)
she been having some teeny, little vehicular troubles as of….always. its what mechanics sometimes refer to as “ENTIRELY FUCKED,” to steal a technical term. eh, well not absolutely and totally…..but certainly beyond the means of my frail purse strings, that’s for sure.
and, well, really, its only ever been a car in the strictest academic sense: it goes forward and, occasionally, it stops. there is no interior to speak of, save some second hand seats and a enough exposed jagged rusty things to strongly encourage you to keep currant on your tetanus shots. it took some time, but, much like Ted Bundy’s mode of transportation, EVERY single one of the interior door handles had been broken off.
short in the starter. short in the battery cables. short in the lights. short in the goddamn fucking “seat move-y up-py” thing,
but, man, i just don’t have the heart to just cast her off to the great parking garage in the sky.
see, even while i’m writing, this Buddy Holly song comes on and all its saying is things like “your gunna miss me……earily in the morning ……one of these days….” and i’m inclined to believe him.
plus i’m a softy: if Pa were to give me that rifle to shoot ol’ yell’er, well the family would just have buy some saliva resistant carpeting and to get used to having a rabid dog for a pet.