Carburetor, I Hate You.

I spent an entire day trying to install a carburetor. For the second time, it's not the right one. Only this time, it's so close to the right one, I didn't see the problem until it the entire thing was installed. I'm not going to clutter this blog with a technical explanation of why it's the wrong one. Instead, I want to clutter this blog with a vitriolic hate filled screed.

I hate this carburetor. I hate this car. I hate working on cars. I do it because I have no choice. When you have no money, you drive old cars. Old cars break down. And with no money, you can't pay someone else to fix them. I hate no money. I hate other people who fix my car and I hate how much they charge. I hate my car. I am filled with hate over that car.

I have bled on this car. Stress has flowed from the bowels of this car and filled my very soul. Tears have been shed. I hate this car.

I despise giving up. I hate this car because it's pushing me to give up. In the face of overwhelming odds I don't give up...but I'm tired. This much hate takes work to maintain.

I'd like to say this is some kind of blessing, but I don't have the will to contort this into anything but what it clearly is. A filthy steaming pile of abysmal disaster with a generous side of...well, this is a family blog. Like I said, I'm tired, it's late, and I have some hate to nurture.

Hugs and kisses,
Eric