Your Meat Vehicle, Your Race Car.
This summer was rather eventful and insightful. I inherited a vintage, refurbished hand-me-down car. I called him — Prndl[pause for reaction if any]. While I was excited to have my very own car, I was also a little overwhelmed by all the fancy buttons and sturdy levers around the driver's seat. I was particularly fascinated by the oddly placed stick with Prndl etched on it, right next to my seat, that’s his name I figured. I learnt to use both the stick and the little peddles hiding underneath by my legs, in tandem, and voila, in no time, I started driving. There was no stopping us anymore, I've got this never imagined freedom to travel all around the town and all by myself.
Every ride became an adventure for Prndl and I. Occasionally we got into few minor accidents. The most painful one for the both of us was our first accident, it gave him a scary long scratch across the driver's seat. It was all my fault, the pain and guilt left me sleepless for over a week. But with time, the excitement we got out of our adventures from drifting through the streets overshadowed our agony from the accidents. With all the adrenaline thumping races and gut-wrenching accidents, my love for Prndl increased immensely, and so did my pampering.
Bonding over the racing adventures, our relationship evolved and so did Prndl’s personality. His irrational shenanigans and random pickiness made it difficult to deal with him at times. There were days when he’d just shut himself off until he got his crappy graded gasoline from the gas station of his choice. Apparently, he doesn’t like the smell of premium grades and hates even the thought of Shell gas station. I believe his aversion towards Shell started from one unfortunate spark plug incident at a Shell gas station in the past. Because of his Shell hatred, we sometimes end up taking longer routes to avoid driving by a Shell gas station. These longer routes use up more gas resulting in him consuming more crappy gas, the vicious cycle. Every once in a while, I notice the rattling sounds under his hood, I see that he’s suffering because of the consequences of his choices, his gasoline choices. I hate that he’s so picky and stubborn, I sure rubbed off a little on him. And my pampering didn’t help the cause either. He knows my buttons and plays me with those cute little puppy-lights[pun on puppy eyes; look for reaction], headlights.
It all changed for the both of us that one eventful night, stranded in the middle of nowhere, by the shoulder of an empty highway, his engine choked and his battery died on me. I was scared, with trembling hands called the service company, and was put on hold for what seemed like an eternity. While waiting on the phone, I started exploring Prndl and found a thick little booklet titled User Manual.
After reading out his summer essay with his newfound confidence in front of the whole class, he looks over at his silent yet patient classmates, a few of them revising their own essays while the others hustling with theirs, to see what they think. While he did have a tiny bit of hope, he wasn’t surprised by no reaction from the class. He turned to see if Ms. Z has any feedback for him, she was too involved in organizing the filing cabinet for the new school year. He paused for a couple of seconds for any questions before he started walking to his desk with his head down nodding and smiling.
Brrrrrringgg… rang the bell, chatter started in the hallway and Ms. Z looks at the clock, asks everyone to submit their essays by end of the day. There was a loud sigh of relief from the class. The guy behind him, the guy who’d introduce him to conspiracy theories, the guy who’d take the blame for his bad breakups, the guy who’d be the best man at his wedding, the guy who’d be the godfather of his future kids, taps his shoulder from the back and …
But: Dude, there’s no way you got a car this summer.
Dude: What’s that?
But: Hey, I’m But, you new to the school? I don’t think your essay was about your car.
Dude: Yeah? What do you think?
But: Dude, you look familiar, have we met before?
Dude: You really don’t recognize me, do you? We were in Mr. M’s Physics last year, Spanish 2 the year before …
But: Shit! Dude! it’s you, The Snorlax Panda! Woah, it all makes sense now. That’s not your car you were talking about, that’s your body. Your body is your car. That’s an amazing transformation dude. Unbelievable! You look fit.
Dude: Woah, I’m glad someone got that. I’m …
But: Yeah, I recognize you now! You’re The Dude, right? That’s a very interesting essay you got there man, that content is just wasted on these people. You know what you should do, you should publish this stuff on …
Dude: You know that’s not my real name, right?
P.S -
Dedicated to — el tío
Inspired by — Joe Rogan
In his words —
Your body is like a race car that you can juice up yourself. You can add the fat tires, you can add the improved suspension, you can beef up the horsepower in the engine, you could do all that yourself or you can just choose to have this shitty body that’s always falling apart on you.
https://www.instagram.com/p/Brl3dxuF0eA/
Prndl —
