R.I.P. Shirley, or thanks for the eight years of reliable crappiness with an occasional expensive breakdown and all I have to show for it is $50

I can’t believe it’s been nine long years. Remember when I picked you out at the age of 17? We hired an auctioneer and at the end of the day, I found you: my V-4 Japanese compact car named for a Thrill Kill Kult song, Shirley “Temple of the Expanded Mind.” Little did I know that you were an easy auction item -- they discontinued making you guys in 1993. Most of my friends bought new cars after college, but we stuck through the last four years despite all of the hardships. Here is an abridged list of everything that I remember (and will forget selectively) about you.

• You were broken into twice. The first time, they were unsuccessful. The second time, they broke your chastity with my windshield scraper and retrieved your precious stereo. And they took my bamboo stick*. Bastards.
  
• Though I replaced the broken glass, the window motor didn’t work quite the same. The pane slips into the door every time your motor violently shakes, which is all the time. I taped the window up with bright blue painter’s tape (which, for some reason, works much better than duct tape).
  
• Did I mention that my car was parked outside of a police officer’s apartment both times? No, I’m not resentful. Not. one. bit. Especially since police officers get discounted rates to protect residential apartments. And I’m not happy that Toby bit his fingers. Not. one. bit.
  
• Speaking of windows, did I mention that your previous owner tried to tint them? The result was a bubbly mess that would drive any OCD scab picker or nail biter insane.
  
• Your previous owner did leave a kick ass “Rifle Marksman” pin, which I proudly pawn off as my own.
  
• The tar flung on your side that eventually ate your paint. The tar was a result of a crisis, my senior high school project and road construction. Laws were violated. ‘Nuff said.
  
• The numerous dings from parallel parking at the university. Probably a result of the bitches who drove cars with vanity plates and bumper stickers that said, “Daddy bought it, but look who got it."
  
• The cigarette burns, especially the one right under me bum. The one I tried to find but didn't until it kindly greeting my backside.
  
• The tub of baked beans that spilled in your backseat when I volunteered to pick up food for an entire film crew.
  
• The mouse that chewed through the floor and died inside of you.
  
• All of my friends hated you.

I’m thankful for the states that you’ve carried me through that include Oklahoma, Texas, Indiana, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, and Arkansas. I wouldn’t have been able to see all the beautiful sunsets or climb mountains without you.

I was going to donate you to charity. Before I could choose a nonprofit to burden, the hippies next door reported you. So I had to call a man with an accent who knew a man with a potbelly who could make you disappear. And all I have to show for it is a measly $50. This, I hear, can buy me one tank of gas in my shiny V-6 Japanese compact sedan. May you caress the highways of heaven forever.

*Notice that the bamboo stick includes a hologram that “turn[s] your competition into a dazzling display of forms and light.” Sweet.