I don't need a car in NYC

I sold my '98 Volvo. My beloved silver Volvo station wagon with the heated leather seats that felt like my ass was ablaze; the distorted speakers; the handy coffee cup holder; the not so great brakes; the engine that started in the morning like it was waiting for me all night. I want to lay down in the driveway and weep.

I had no idea I would attach such meaning to a car. I've sold cars before and didn't care. It's where my son learned to drive; where I took the kids to and from school, friends' houses, camp. It's taken me to PTown, NYC, and points in between. It's been cried in, loved in, laughed in, sang in. It's what the poodles run to from the park with Weetzie at the helm.