Identity

My heart is officially broken.

My car. My baby. My love, and my only possession worth more than $500 (next being my computer, which, resale, is likely worth closer to $200).

My car is not street legal -- just call me Kat B. Dangereuse

My car is not street legal -- just call me Kat B. Dangereuse

My car needs repairs that cost more than I can afford. I think…it’s time to sell my baby.

I should be able to sell it, no problem. Many a pimp has yelled offers as I drive with the top down.

It’s just…I love that car. I grew up in that car. When I was less than 2 years old my father left me in the passenger’s seat for a sec while he got out to talk to a friend, and I put the car in neutral and started rolling down the hill — the first car I ever drove, we joke. I have pictures of me as a toddler helping my father wash the car. He and I used to go for drives at night, and I’d always fall asleep on his protective arm, stretched across the middle of the front seat, where I felt so totally safe.

I just can’t afford to keep fixing the car, and this time it’s the brakes that are shot, requiring a $3K job. Kiiiiiiind of a deal breaker.

It’s just — my raisin-in-the-sun profession, two imploded relationships in as many years, my oft-nurtured gypsy lifestyle, my beloved car, my chopped hair — I know that new beginnings require a closed door on the past, but, for the love of god, I’m feeling very, very far removed from my identity right now. I asked for catharsis, but this feels more like a total bonfire of my vanities.

I keep thinking that if I can hang on for just a couple more years, then I can afford to fix my car. But I’m not sure if I’m being childish. Truly, I’m feeling very adolescent lately — with so many dramatic, shake-my-core changes, I’m feeling foreign to myself and unsure of exactly who I am.

Greased Lightning

Greased Lightning

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