You are a rusty piece of shit, old friend.
I too, am a rusty piece of shit.
So we’re going to endure the next month together. We’ll go to work, Monday through Friday, at 8:40 every morning and hope we get there by 9, because really, we don’t care if we keep this job anymore.
And somewhere between 3:10 and 3:15, we’re going home, after you’re parked behind a warm dumpster all day because my cunt of a boss wont let me park you in the shed we don’t use.
This entire process will suck. I am more suited to my computer chair and I’m sure you’re better suited to a junk heap. You are a single speed, baby-brake, piece of rusted out junk. I’ll drop you off, sweaty and out of breath, every morning wishing I just listened to NPR for five minutes instead of this.
One of us will unrust and be less of a busted up piece of shit and turn into something that runs better.
I have a feeling it’ll be me.
Unless it rains, on those days, you’ll be a wet, rusting piece of shit, and I will be dry and in my car.