The Tank

     Minus my one meeting with Hannah and her conversation partner, y'all might have realized via discussion in class that I've had bad luck with the ESL students. Either that, or my name translated to "jerkface" or "I hate you" in Chinese, Korean or whichever respective language the student speaks, because they refuse to respond to my emails. Awesome. But when Dr. Williams sent us the list of alternative blogging options, I opened the document and my eye was instantly drawn to one topic- write about your car.
     Again as discussed in class, I drive a 1999 GMC Suburban that holds eight people comfortably (nine if you include the beach chair in the trunk that has not left my car since South Padre Island). He's got 180,000 miles on him, and to just drive strait you practically have to hold a hard left all the time. It smells kind of funny, shakes when you break 60 miles per hour, but it's all these things that I love about my car. A car so affectionately named Frank, the Tank, or Frank the Tank by my friends, with the recent addition of Deathtrap by one of more cautious driving peers (that name may or may not be more influenced by my style of driving).
     I think what so attaches me to my car is the fact that I have been commuting in it for literally most of my lifetime, and by that I mean 13 years. Granted I haven't been driving the car since I was 6, it was the old family car, but when I took over the wheel at age 16 I felt like I had been driving that car for forever.
    People ask if it sucks that I have to have an old hand-me-down car more often than you'd think, but my response is always no; I've made that car my own in uncountable ways. It may be the addition of the "party" seat in the trunk, or the 5-6 months spans when my car savvy friend and I will rip off the muffler just for kicks, making that car roar like the lion I think it is on the inside. If you can't tell by this great American novel I just wrote about an old piece of junk, I freaking love that car.
     Sadly enough though I am starting to see the ol' Tank come close to his limit these days. Batteries seem to last shorter and shorter, trouble starting is more frequent, and multiple trips to the shop are just a hassle. That's ok though, because it's just the circle of life. Frank will go on to better things one of these days when he just can't be mine anymore, and I've accepted that. But someday in the future, I'll look back and remember the fits of laughter, private screams of anger and dismay, and experiences of a lifetime I had in that old Suburban.