Eau de Volkswagen

I drive it and I feel at ease. Nothing is wrong with the world because we are together, even if the brakes selectively work. I roll my windows down and let the wind blow my hair out of my elastic and into my face. Each time I slow down, the recently freed stray hairs flop down over my face and I try, in vain, to brush them aside. Sometimes I wonder how a vehicle can seem to have a personality of its own. I have thought, on more than one occassion, that I love my van more than I love most people. Sure, sometimes it may seem like the van wants to kill me, but it is those moments when the brakes are working and my gear shifting seems perfect, so smooth, that I live for.
I sometimes think about selling it. Not often, but enough. Sometimes I think that the money that van would bring me would do a lot to ease my financial burdens. I couldn't sell it though, it would almost be like seriously considering selling my dog. I am convinced that no one would appreciate the dog or that van the way I do. No one could love them as much as I do. They are part of my family. Me, a dog, a retarded cat, and a 30-year-old van. Most people, when dreaming of the summer, think of the sweet smell of flowers in bloom, or the smell of fresh cut grass. Not me. I dream of the smell of gasoline on my clothes. No matter how much perfume I may pour on myself, every time I drive that van I smell like gasoline for a week. I wouldn't trade that smell for anything.