Dear Lady with THE Car,

Hey, you. Yeah, you, with the gold Ford Taurus. Look, I just can't take it anymore. Can you, like, get your car fixed? Seriously? I mean, every morning I think someone has tied a woman to their car with ropes and is dragging her down the street, and that she's holding a megaphone as she screams in pain and terror. It's not funny anymore. At first, haha, yeah, it was like demons ascending from Hell, pursued by shrieking she-devils. But now, it's a woman screaming. Your car is giving me nightmares. Stop the torture. Doesn't it bother you? When you are driving your car, CAN'T YOU HEAR THAT? Doesn't it sound like your worst fears being acted out by a car? Haven't you seen the movie, "Christine?" You know, that movie based on the book by Steven King? Yeah, that Steven King. The one who writes HORROR stories. Do you want the plot to "Christine" to come true? You look like a nice lady, and your car looks great. (Except for that gold color. Maybe fix that, too.) But just do me a little favor, drive that screaming possessed piece of hellish machinery down to friggin' Pep Boys. I don't care how much it costs. (Heck, if you are worried about money, we have a great cheap mechanic. He's Mormon, so he won't cheat you or anything. In theory, at least.) Once it's fixed, come over. I'll make you some cookies. Maybe we can be friends. But as long as my mornings sound like I'm living in the seventh circle of hell, or in a serial killer's basement, you are no friend of mine.

Love,
Kelli