My first car was an aged Mitsubishi Galant. It was a hand-me-down from a friend who was moving away. I was at a community college and needed a cheap ride.
The deed says he sold it to me for $1, but he also bought me fried icecream at a Mexican restaurant to the tune of $4. That he essentially paid me to take his car probably should have been a warning sign.
I drove it home and discovered that it sounded like a 100HP Magic Bullet when I started the engine, it leaked oil constantly, and I could see the asphalt through the gearshift box. I was sure that it would explode into a ball of fire upon hitting 60mph, so I never took it on the highway.
But despite having to buy oil along with my gasoline, despite sliding into snowbanks on treads that weren’t worth replacing, and despite being absolutely sure I was going to die in it, I grew to love my Shitsubishi as it shuttled me through college.
My dad drove it once. “Too dangerous,” he said. So we donated it.
We murdered someone that day.