Saturday, July 31, 2010

I Have a Confession...

Well, actually, that's a lie. I don't. My car does.

See, last week when I was at home, Mom & I realized that I had accidentally taken her car's registration and proof-of-insurance sticker a few months ago. (Her car is named Burt, and mine is named Charlotte the Carlette. We like to name things. It's fun.) When I got back to LA, I sent back Burt's registration. I also wrote a little somethin' somethin'...

[There's a lot of my family's inside-jokes in here, so if Carlette makes some strange references, that's why. Just warning you.]

Dear Burt,

I am writing this letter to you because I have a most painful confession to make. But first, let me just say that I miss you deeply. Our time together six long months ago have been some of my most treasured memories. Those thirty minutes of conversation while merely standing there in the garage have inspired so many fascinating thoughts. I have had many a fine conversation in a parking lot, but the things we discussed in that spacious garage have stuck with me far more than any other conversation with another car has!

But, as I said, I do have a confession to make, and it is both an embarrassing and painful one. After I was booted out of the garage and back on the sidewalk, I grew lonely. I felt such pain, such sorrow. Knowing that you are having such meaningful conversations with Felix II makes me ache with jealousy. So last month, when I was back at the house, I was so thrilled to have the opportunity to talk to you again! Yet we did not see each other. I was, once again, relegated to the loneliness of the outdoors, with only a stupid bird with a fear of shiny objects to talk to. And did you do anything to bring me indoors? No, you did not.

Perhaps our conversations meant nothing to you. Perhaps I was just a simple distraction, a ruse to get away from talking to that ridiculous motorbike. (Does he ever speak in full sentences?) Or perhaps you have these conversations with any old car. I cannot know. Regardless, it is clear to me that our talks meant far more to me than they did to you.

Knowing this has caused me such pain these last few weeks. And I was so angry when you didn’t even try to see me again, that I stole something of yours. Something important, something vital to your well-being: I took your registration and your proof of insurance sticker.

I know it was wrong, but I needed to make a statement, to make sure that you heard me loud and clear. But apparently that was not the case, for you have gone six months without either of the two. Perhaps you are far less intelligent than you seem: if you have truthfully not noticed these vital components haven’t been there, then maybe I overestimated you. Or perhaps you do not care. I cannot know.

But I am the bigger car in this situation (not literally, I know you are far taller than I, but I am emotionally the bigger car), so I am returning these things to you. I would love to hear back from you, but knowing how little you care about me, I am not expecting a response. I hope you have a nice life and wish you the best mileage.


Charlotte T. Carlette

....Yes, this is what I do in my spare time.

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