Let’s face it, you’ve never grown up. You’ve lived on the road, touring for most of what you call your ‘Adult’ life. Or you stay up all night, slaving away on some album from a band that you like – the can of tuna and diet Rite are the only things keeping your weary eyes open at 3:30am.
Your mom keeps calling, wondering where her grandkids are. Your dad, given up on you years ago, sent your sister to check up on you and to let you know that as soon as you decide to quit fucking around and join the work force and actually use the diploma he spent 20 years saving for, then he’ll help you out with your bills. As you read this, you can’t remember why your keyboard is sticky – but you ran out of paper towels last week and don’t feel like looking through fast food bags in the trash, hoping to find a spare piece of napkin to clean it. Only because you think you might be out of toilet paper.
Well, clean this shit up man. You know you’re gonna make it on the next record, that we all know. However, until that time, it’s stupid to pretend that people don’t judge you.
But you’ve been working on it. Your jeans cost less than the expensive European cigarette that burned the hole in the left pant leg. They also haven’t been washed in three weeks. You have a shirt with an animal on it with x’s over its eyes. It’s from Kid Robot. People like that.
You’ve worked on your “fear” of people. Now you go out and let everyone know that you’re out, but you don’t go to this bar often. People like that.
But then, when you and the drummer from that band from Denver hop in your car to go pick up that t, you suddenly realize you’re not complete.
People who are taken seriously drive cars that are as effortless as they are practical. Yours is neither. It smells weird. It’s ugly. It runs rough. It has that little area below the emergency brake that has four years of cigarettes, pot, and coffee baked into a nice, hairy, pit of despair – with a few pennies thrown in for good measure.
It’s not a “brand of car” thing. I know people who love Yugos. Nothing wrong with that. It’s that your car doesn’t personify you. Sure, it’s just transportation. But you can’t bitch about the environment when your car spews more fluid than a BP rig.
No, you need something that’s more in line with how you feel today.
You work hard for a living. You’re reliable. You’re efficient.
Manual Transmission
You’re not fancy. You don’t let things affect you. You clean up well.
Beige Cloth
You enjoy the outdoors. Not enough to actually go outside.
Sunroof
You have carpal tunnel or a similar hand disorder from a music related activity.
Power Windows / Power Locks
You have a terrifying fear of dying in a horrific mechanical related accident.
Airbags
You appreciate nice footwear – mostly because when pretty girls start talking to the group of friends you’re standing around with, it’s the only thing you can look at lest you vomit from nervousness.
Alloy Wheels
You’re caucasian. The 90′s were your favorite time period.
1998 Volkswagen
You pay for things you like, but want to get a good deal because eating just Jimmy Johns bread sucks, man.
Sub $5000
Even though you haven’t had many partners, you suspect your last girlfriend has. But that’s okay. Cause she wasn’t afraid to touch you with your shirt off. You’re not afraid of miles. Especially not on something so perfectly right as a 1998 Volkswagen Jetta with 118,000 miles for $4,791.
