On looking at my mortally wounded automobile and loathing things smaller than it

Perhaps the worst thing about all this is the idea that our big beautiful Buick that had explored trackless wilderness, plunged through rivers, and maneuvered effortlessly through Chicago traffic was done in by that little fuck of a box on wheels, a Toyota Scion. A Scion. I can pick up a Scion with one hand. You can blow on them and they flip over. And yet one destroyed my car, a car that had never broken down, ever. Oh, ignominious Death.

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