Oh, Strawberry. Was there ever a car more loved than thee?
You, my long awaited wheels–whom I searched for like a precious jewel, and when I found you, named you on sight.
You, though you have no majesty to recommend you. Who can only boast that you are “good on gas” and “cute” and maybe “red–very red.”
You, who have no power locks or windows. Who boasts a mediocre stereo. Who handles like a gutless go-cart, and whose short wheel-base makes winter driving a terror.
You, whom I toil so hard to maintain, taking up a full quarter of my salary to own, the sole reason I work two jobs. Whom I shall soon ransom from the bank.
Still, I wish thee a cheery ‘good night’ every evening. I bid you ‘be good’ when I leave you in the parking lot, and ‘good evening’ when I emerge from the factory. I feed you with the finest regular unleaded gasoline, and plug you in to keep you warm, though it cost me dearly.
I must love you truly.
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