I was driving down the freeway today listening the some new wave tunes, when all of a sudden, my car was attacked by what appeared to be a wrench. Of course I'm not sure if it was a wrench, because when a metal object is hurtling at your windshield at top speed, it's hard to tell what it is. I chose not to duck, but sadly I survived nonetheless. My windshield, however, was not so resilient. I was able to find some satisfaction in the fact that the most recent damage to my car was for once, not my fault.

Unfortunately, the satisfaction was short-lived. When I arrived at work, I cruised through the parking lot and confirmed my suspicion that I possessed the most pathetic vehicle of all of the employees there. Between the lack of hubcaps, enormous dent that my ex-boyfriend tried to fix with metallic spray paint and a hammer, the now shattered windshield, plethora of other dents and dings, and finally, the chain license plate holder I installed in an attempt to "keep it real," it now appeared that I was actually driving what I have now dubbed "the shame machine." When I am arriving in the morning, I avert my eyes in the hopes that my co-workers won't notice who is driving one of the most miserable chariots to ever be used on a daily 2 hour commute.

When I got to my desk, I called the employee assistance program, which offers short-term therapy for the hirelings at my company. "What is the issue you are experiencing that you would like to talk about?" the receptionist asked me.

"I hate my car," I replied. The silence on the other end was deafening. But then, I was offered a same-day appointment. Perhaps the receptionist hated her car as well, or decided that my willingness to request therapy about my car was indicative of a greater mental illness.

I went to the therapist's office, and spilled my sad tale of woe. He looked at me quietly for a while, and then finally observed, "You seem upset."

Past tales of my car accidents: