My car is a beat-up, dented, green Bonneville that is approximately the same age as me. It’s been on its last limb for the past two years, and whenever I give friends a ride, they always eye it suspiciously before opening the paint-stripped door and reluctantly strapping in. Despite its less than enticing appearance, and the fact that I can be rather unappreciative of the dying beast, it has been with me through the ups and downs of my high school career.
When I was running late to school one icy morning and spun out in a roundabout, good old Bonne slid to a stop unharmed. I paused, composed myself, and drove to school rattled but safe (and I made it on time). I’ve driven around in it while I navigated the winding streets of suburbia, attempting
When I was running late to school one icy morning and spun out in a roundabout, good old Bonne slid to a stop unharmed. I paused, composed myself, and drove to school rattled but safe (and I made it on time). I’ve driven around in it while I navigated the winding streets of suburbia, attempting