(no subject)
I haven't driven my WRX yet, still. I'm scared. Not of the car but of me.
Shawn has been taking me for nightly drives and they have been nothing short of dreamy. He's an excellent driver. Better by far than me. He knows exactly what I like and what bothers me, and he carefully dances along that fine line to give me just exactly everything I want from a ride. Acceleration enough to throw me back in my seat, but no senseless speeding. Mellow on the straights. Aggressive through the twisties so I can feel the G's but calm the rest of the time. And always on the lookout for critters on a road that is only lit by headlights and the moon. He went very fast on one stretch just to slam on the brakes and show how good they were. "Impressive" I muttered. I am enormously grateful, among other things.
It's been fantastic to the point of surreal. I've most likely been subconsciously locking the pleasure into something like enjoying a good dream. Not actually letting the reality of it consume me. Not like I would with a real car on a real road in the real world. I've ridden in plenty of Evo's, with strangers, on obscure back roads, and never once feared for my safety. The men never concerned me (they're just fellow enthusiasts and murderers would be hard pressed to find female victims on car forums). And I have a lot of faith in modern automotive safety requirements. The worst that could possibly happen is I'd have to listen to him whine while we waited for a tow truck. Their wrecked car isn't my problem. However, my wrecked WRX is a life shattering problem. But even that problem pales in comparison to the threat I feel. The terror that is looming over my head. I can visualize those evil forked claws backing up to my WRX and taking it away forever. Taking more than just it but my credit and my paycheck with it. But it doesn't stop there. That's not even the worst. Because dragging behind it is the lumpy mound of warm raw flesh that hits a bump in the concrete just to thud back down again leaving another spot of blood on the pavement as some cold bastard who's just doing his job drives away while shredding up my heart along the course ground.
And so I'm afraid to drive my car. Because the damned thing is just so good! If I drive it I will love it! I know everybody says they love driving. And everybody says they love their cars. I don't doubt that. I know they do. I mentioned something awhile back about objectofiles, or something like that. People who love things in unhealthy ways. I think I might seriously be defective in that way. I'm not normal like that. I'm mentally damaged. I'm flawed.
I have to drive it this weekend, on a road that is exquisite even. But with children as passengers, both ways.
I know I should just surrender to it now. Enjoy what I have while I have it. But I didn't sign up for this. I never would have. If I were single I wouldn't sign up to the terminally ill dating sight. But I'm broke and have an 09 WRX
Shawn has been taking me for nightly drives and they have been nothing short of dreamy. He's an excellent driver. Better by far than me. He knows exactly what I like and what bothers me, and he carefully dances along that fine line to give me just exactly everything I want from a ride. Acceleration enough to throw me back in my seat, but no senseless speeding. Mellow on the straights. Aggressive through the twisties so I can feel the G's but calm the rest of the time. And always on the lookout for critters on a road that is only lit by headlights and the moon. He went very fast on one stretch just to slam on the brakes and show how good they were. "Impressive" I muttered. I am enormously grateful, among other things.
It's been fantastic to the point of surreal. I've most likely been subconsciously locking the pleasure into something like enjoying a good dream. Not actually letting the reality of it consume me. Not like I would with a real car on a real road in the real world. I've ridden in plenty of Evo's, with strangers, on obscure back roads, and never once feared for my safety. The men never concerned me (they're just fellow enthusiasts and murderers would be hard pressed to find female victims on car forums). And I have a lot of faith in modern automotive safety requirements. The worst that could possibly happen is I'd have to listen to him whine while we waited for a tow truck. Their wrecked car isn't my problem. However, my wrecked WRX is a life shattering problem. But even that problem pales in comparison to the threat I feel. The terror that is looming over my head. I can visualize those evil forked claws backing up to my WRX and taking it away forever. Taking more than just it but my credit and my paycheck with it. But it doesn't stop there. That's not even the worst. Because dragging behind it is the lumpy mound of warm raw flesh that hits a bump in the concrete just to thud back down again leaving another spot of blood on the pavement as some cold bastard who's just doing his job drives away while shredding up my heart along the course ground.
And so I'm afraid to drive my car. Because the damned thing is just so good! If I drive it I will love it! I know everybody says they love driving. And everybody says they love their cars. I don't doubt that. I know they do. I mentioned something awhile back about objectofiles, or something like that. People who love things in unhealthy ways. I think I might seriously be defective in that way. I'm not normal like that. I'm mentally damaged. I'm flawed.
I have to drive it this weekend, on a road that is exquisite even. But with children as passengers, both ways.
I know I should just surrender to it now. Enjoy what I have while I have it. But I didn't sign up for this. I never would have. If I were single I wouldn't sign up to the terminally ill dating sight. But I'm broke and have an 09 WRX