Fucking money. 20 thousand dollars I may never have for a thing I don’t need. I could get a craigslist car for five grand. But fuck that. No more tow trucks. No more haggling with Armenians.
It has a sunroof. Picture driving to the desert. The stars. A girl. A girl… I’m buying the fantasy. All wheel drive in snow. 4 more horsepower than previous models. Have to haggle over interest rates. They know I’m a sucker. Don’t show them your cards. Don’t tell them your mommy can cosign for you if your welfare queen credit score is an issue. Don’t tell them this, don’t tell them that. Be prepared to walk away.
I’m a fraud. I don’t have money. I suck at negotiating. I can’t lie. All business is sales. All sales is lies. Don’t get invested. Overpriced piece of plastic. And yet– god damn what a machine. I love it, I hate it, I’m afraid of it, I’m afraid of being afraid to park it on the street. An acorn falls on it and it explodes.
Meanwhile I have an infection that will eat my face. Rough spreading redness between the eyes. Lotion on it every day. By night it recedes. Then when I wake it’s worse. It will spread to my eyeballs and blind me. Die horrible from eye AIDS but first I’ll never get laid again and every woman will laugh at my small penis. And the cat will die.
This is why I can’t have kids. Every minute imagining a rapist vivisecting them. You make a kid, you make a target for acid throwers. Limb severers. As it is I spend at least ten minutes per day picturing a van fragging the cat with its back tires. That’s enough. I don’t need more things to love and be afraid of losing.
All your fears are true. You will die. You will die painfully. The least painful death conceivable is the guillotine. I bet that hurts like a bitch. The blade slicing through your neck nerves, fast as it is– time telescopes out and out and you’re in that moment for a thousand years. Like the stairmaster. Working off one Mrs. Fields Fucking cookie you follow a long train of thought about kneebones grinding. Run lost down long cornering corridors of hate, fear. pain, knowledge of future pain. Look up. The seconds digit hasn’t turned. Watch it laying still for a very long time. Only after does it seem like nothing. In the car with the NPR over the windshield wipers groaning in the cold rain. Cavernously hungry for a Mrs. Field’s cookie. You’re fat. You’ll always be fat. Your soul is fat. No matter how skinny you get people look in your eyes and see fat. Fat ugly stupid small penis long nostril hairs. You trim but you always miss one.
Anyway. Buying a car. What I’m paying for the fucking rental to get me to dealerships is already more than I want to spend, ever. The fucking insurance costs 24 dollars a day. Enterprise has new management. Vigilant about inventory shrinkage. Can’t pay with a debit card with enough on it to rent the car five years. Must be credit. Then the chipper young dork tries to sell you a bunch of other garbage from a script and you can smell his agony. Corporations force every employee to upsell. Even fucking Burger King. I’m gonna cancel my card and give this car to a hobo. These people can blow me.
Relax. You will die and it won’t matter. This twenty thousand dollar hunk of plastic– driving it through air kills a million microbes a second. Each one exactly as significant as you. But then, they split themselves to reproduce. They don’t have to worry about pussy. So: fuck them. Privileged sacks of shit.
I’ll choose wrong, and then what. The car will break and I’ll spend money on top of money. The Rothschilds will own my organs and my inadequate cock and my hideous rash covered face. Toil forever to pay off compound interest that feeds on itself while my flesh depreciates. What are you gonna do. Beats taking the bus.