Sweet, sweet revenge. My turn:

1998 Oldsmobile Bravada. Fuck this car with an 8ft-long steel rebar of broken promises and destroyed teenage love. To her credit, she was so thankful to have this vehicle given by her parents, but she bestowed onto it a special kind of malmaintenence and accumulation of unbelievable mess on the inside. I couldn’t really complain since hers was the vehicle with a sunroof and leather interior, which instantly made it better than my own, but two things in particular that one would curse during the hot southwestern summers since the A/C didn’t really stream cold until 45 minutes went by. Perfect symbolism here, since our ignorance-laden teenage love burned pretty fucking hot and would take a while for us to get used to the relationship where it felt routine.

Add on to that a broken side-view mirror held on by drooping duct tape partially melted from said hot summers, a gas cap that she never bothered to replace (rain would find its way in), and lingering engine issues that would leave her/us concerned we’d never make our way back home from a date, you have the perfect representation for my first love: a decent first relationship that we both were on Cloud Nine over, and should have been trusty and sturdy enough to stay in-tact and happiness enducing forever. Yet hinted subtly over time that it’s not long for this world.

I still miss that relationship to this day, and I hate it for that.