I was just deleting one of the many spam comments I get on this blog about cars, exquisite replicas, and carrot-sized male meats, when I was reminded of this amazing string of comments from Verity Shingfield I got in November. I didn’t put the pieces together until just now.
Also, the offer still stands, except now the car has 92K miles on it and broken back rotors. Whoops!
Would anyone like a car? It’s a black 1997 Nissan Altima and it has about 90,000 miles on it. It’s in excellent condition internally. The outside is gross.
I would keep this car forever if I could, but at this point it does not make sense. I will sell this car to you for $3,000, OBO (oboe).
Please contact me to arrange a test-drive.
This is one of the pictures that popped up when I typed in “Nissan Altima 1997″
I experienced a crushing disappointment this afternoon when I got out of my car to see how loud the radio sounded from the sidewalk and discovered that you can’t hear it AT ALL. I had been under the impression that when I blasted amazing songs like “I Want You” by Savage Garden, people would think to themselves, “Wow, WHO is playing this amazing song?” and then they would see me and be stunned by how amazing I was. But nope, this has never happened. F this. Everything sucks.
Bridget and I were heading over to pick up a giant chalkboard from my friend’s apartment, but my car’s battery was dead. It turned out to be a great evening, though, because we made friends with some old guys sitting on a stoop, and then I called AAA. While we were waiting for AAA, we went and got a beer at this restaurant that had free, unlimited chips and salsa. Then AAA came, gave me a battery boost, and I had to keep the car on for a long time so it would charge back up. So I drove around and around and discovered this great new song called “Beautiful Girls.” It was the number one most requested song on Z100’s hot nine at nine. Here’s a link to the song, there isn’t a video yet: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21UPsDdi9RE
I got a parking ticket yesterday because I forgot to move my car. I just forgot it was there. For the first time in two years. It feels like if I had a kid and I woke up and I was like, let me get myself some trendy tea and pour myself some organic cereal and read the paper and then get dressed—is this outfit cool and kind of sexy?—and then put on nice eyeliner and then make sure my keys, cell phone, and wallet are all in my expensive leather bag, and then I leave the house and I check my rear view mirror to make sure my face looks okay, and I practice smiling, and I start driving to work, and halfway to work I realize that my child is dying in a puddle of diarrhea choking on his own Cheerios vomit in the middle of whatever room I left him in.