So I have sad news.
Very sad news.
I might be selling my car.
Damien the Wild Stallion, aka my pride and joy, my trusty Volvo that's chugged along for 363,006 miles (as of now)...my BOY!
I bought Damien three weeks before my 16th birthday. That's right, *I* bought him. With my own money. This was absolutely shocking to my friends at school, the thought of me *gasp* BUYING MY OWN CAR, because why weren't my parents going to take me to the Mercedes lot on my 16th birthday and say "pick one" like all my other friends' parents did?
Uh. Cause my parents aren't gazillionaires?
I knew I needed to have a car because the 30-minute trek to my high school twice a day (translating into 2 hours of car time) was wearing my parents thin. And because I had a booming babysitting business, and I could bring in more money (and clients) if I had my own transportation.
So about 6 months before I turned 16, I started perusing the classifieds and online. I had two specifications: RUNNING, and CHEAP. I know, I'm so picky.
I had a brief love affair with an ancient white pickup truck, for whatever reason (I shudder thinking of it now). I also fell for a cute little yellow Volvo that was in my price range! And perfect! But oh. It wouldn't drive backwards. Oops.
But about three weeks before my birthday, I found a little white Volvo that looked great online at a small, family-owned dealership. My dad and I were all set to go check it out one day, but then I got an emergency babysitting call, so he went on alone. On the way back from babysitting, I got a phone call from him.
"Hey kiddo," he said. "Bad news--the white Volvo was sold. But I found a green one that looks good!"
(Enter angels singing, etc.)
I went to check out the green Volvo, and it was love at first drive. A 1994 Volvo 850 with approximately 330,000 miles on him.
It ran, and it was cheap.
Damien's been my constant companion ever since. I was so sad to leave him when I went up north for college, and so happy to be reunited with him when I came home! He's my sidekick, my ability to wear my politics on my, uh, bumper. He's dragged me all over town, endured spilled milk and yogurt from kids in the back seat, been kicked at, and torn apart by little fingers (oh, and big ones too...I used to have rowdy friends). But he's kept chugging along.
So why, after this passionate love I have for him, am I considering selling him?
You'll have to check back in a few days for the answer. Because this post is very long already and I have to go. Sorry for the cliffhanger!