If it had a diesel engine, this would be my new car. How on earth could I resist a pink convertible grease-powered jalopy with the Powerpuff Girls painted on its side? Particularly as my car is in the shop, again, to deal with leaking brake fluid, again - this time they're reconfiguring the muffler so it doesn't scrape against the brake line and cause leaks every two months. I'm being nickled and hundred-fifty-dollared to death.
Never mind the car troubles, though, I've been thinking today about my relationship with the color pink. It's the only color with enough social meat to form an actual relationship with, the only color that pushes back at you and refuses to accept whatever implications you care to rhapsodize into it. Squealing over a pink car is definitely a betrayal of my adolescent self. And it's not that I've secretly wanted to love the color pink all this time, but was too ashamed - pink is fine, but for genuine aesthetic enjoyment I'll take a nice green car any day. Obnoxious pink things are just a big girly "fuck you" - and driving around a big "fuck you" is loads of fun! But I'm not quite certain who, exactly, I would be supposed to be fucking with that sort of a car*.
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