I have sometimes been known to *ahem* decorate my car. Honestly, doesn't a little customization make sense? I mean, after all, it's my car. Sure, respectability and all, but don't you sometimes feel like a little electron racing around the circuitboard tracks of a massive social computer?

So I painted the hood with music notes. That doesn't make me weird, does it? I mean, some people paint their fingernails, and that's not weird.

You know, you don't have to remind me about the picture frame I installed underneath the stereo. I see it every time I drive. Honestly, can't a guy have a little fun with his car once in a while? It's not like it's my bike or my trumpet. It's just a car (hmm, I wonder which is worth more. I bet both bike and trumpet individually trump the car).

In a few years, I will be able to put a vintage license plate on it. After all, it's a vintage 1989 Plymouth Horizon.

Sigh. Well, you're right about one thing. I would never install one of those horrendous asphyxio-scent pinetree dangly things in my car. I can't stand foreign smells inside.....

What's that strawberry-kiwi-ish fragrance coming from inside, you ask?

Oh. Heh. Yeah. (shuffles nervously)...ummm -- yeah. About that, um, fragrance.

Last week, I found out that the rear driver's side floor doesn't leak. I thought it was good news. Don't you?

Evidently, half-gallon Gatorade bottle lids aren't completely secure.

I spent twenty minutes bailing it out with a plastic cup.

Evidently, Gatorade wasn't designed with the now-sticky interiors of cars on blazing-hot days in mind.