Yeah, I know, I know. Abusers are the worst offenders imaginable. The poor little innocent car didn’t do anything to me. It just sits there in the garage perfectly innocent, providing years and years of reliable transportation. Every time I gun the engine, or slam the door, it hurts, and those revs and slams mean fewer and fewer years that the car can give back to me.

But sometimes you’ve just had a bad day at work, or at home. And you know deep down in all rationality that slamming that door isn’t going to do you any favors. But you just feel so pent-up that you just don’t care. It’s been there for you, you know those Detroit (or wherever in Alabama those things are assembled now) welds will hold up to it, so you slam the door. You rev that engine. You do it because you know it can take it.

Lately I feel like I’ve been being treated like shit by my own family even though I’m doing everything they tell me to. I feel like people just treat me with a complete lack of respect, or take advantage of me, or just use me as a scapegoat. In short, I actually feel a lot like Tyrion Lannister.

So, about the only constructive outlet I feel is to take it out on my car. I slam the doors as hard as I possibly could, even get a bit of a running start, because after so many years with this thing I know those welds can take it. Those welds are damn near indestructable. I drop a few gears and rev that engine at 5500 RPM at 45MPH, the angry noise almost becoming an outward extension of my frustration. I sometimes slam the brakes down hard when the rearview is completely clear. So, yeah, I’m guilty. I’m a car abuser, the worst sort of the lot.

And thus, I submit myself to your judgement, Oppo.