Yesterday, my trusty steed bit the dust. It had been (to use the technical terms) smelling funny and running funny for a few weeks, and we finally gave up on our home hospice care and took it to The Man. The Man said we had seven oil leaks. The Man said stop driving your car right now. And The Man said it’s not worth the thousands of dollars it would cost to fix it. So we bought a new car. And sent our leaky old one to leak in an unknown place. Not good. We have a few lingering splotches on our landlord’s driveway to forever remind us of our sin.
The leaky car is nothing next to the hundreds of gallons of oil we have to use to heat this place. I haven’t done a lifecycle analysis, but I’m pretty sure that despite my anti-oil leanings I’m officially Part of the Problem at this point. And all because I’m an apartment-renting, beater-driving brokeass.
So this morning I am feeling poor and oily and sad. You can comfort me or berate me or ignore me. But thanks in advance for letting me spew. And RIP, trusty steed.