With a heavy heart, I bid you adieu. For the past 11 years you have carted my ass around infinity and beyond. You have been my road trip buddy, my confidante, and never once judged me for hauling home old paintings, bowling balls, rusty metal, several sofas, more-vintage-chairs-than-I-can-count and other tchotchkes I didn’t need. We have rocked out together, unapologetically singing happy pop songs and yelling to Rage Against The Machine with the windows down, looking like tools but feeling free as birds. I know how happy it made you when I shared my food scraps with your floor mats and let the kids climb through your windows Bo and Luke Duke style. Thank you for getting me from point A to point B, and point Y to point flea market. And I will never ever forget the time you gave me a boost with your hood so I could get into that massive commercial dumpster while the kids kept a lookout for the bad guys. Good times.
I will forever miss your dust covered dash, your stale but comforting scent, your squeaky doors, the way your seat spoons me, and your most charming quirk: that obnoxious sound the locks make when I hit 10 mph. I can only compare it to the horrifying sound that I imagine Bert would make if Ernie decapitated a pigeon. The only things I won’t miss are the stack of greenbacks I dish out to fill your super sized gassy tank hole and the agonizing pain I repetitively experience after smashing my knee into your rusty trailer hitch. I apologize for all the f-bombs I screamed at you when it wasn't really your fault. Clumsy knees on clumsy girls never learn.
I hope your new owner will treat you right and refrain from farting into your seats as you take on many new forks in many new roads, while singing loudly as long as it isn’t "today's country", because I know you'd rather blow your headlights out with a 50 caliber sniper rifle than hear Rascal Flatts.
10-4 good buddy,