About Me:
My crime is simple. I like cars. I like the shape of a good car and the noise it makes when you push its engine to the limits. I like the tummy tugging g-forces in a corner and I get the same sort of pleasure from a well held power slide as others do from scoring a 40-yard goal.
What’s more, the car is perhaps the only machine in our everyday lives that can dump a ton of dopamine into your arterial route map while performing the humdrum task of moving you from A to B. A toaster cannot do that.
Things that appeal to your inner animalistic being — good food, sex and drama — cannot also keep you dry in a rain shower or get your flat-packed furniture home from the shop. The car appeals on every level. Personal freedom. Practicality. Excitement. You’d have to be a Darwinian oxbow lake to not want one.
Once you have accepted all this, you should buy the fastest and most beautiful car that falls into your grasp. You should drive it whenever and wherever the mood takes you, paying the fines and the charges and the tolls. You should use it as a tool and as an extension of your personality. You should enjoy it. And you should also pray to God I’m right.
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