Four Wheels and a Middle Finger

by someone too worn out to perform and too awake to pretend

Why the fuck do cars have to be complicated?

They used to be metal and motion—now they’re rolling therapy sessions that beep, whine, and ghost you just when you need them most.
Everything’s a warning. Tire pressure. Oil life. Check engine—why? Because it feels like it.

I don’t want a relationship with my car.
I want her quiet, loyal, and ready when I am.
Start. Go. Stop. No mood swings. No “update required” at the worst possible moment.

I’m dreaming of an old car that doesn’t need work.
Not a project. Not a TikTok restoration saga. Just something with enough soul to run without needing a genius bar appointment.

I’m an analog guy in a digital world.
Give me knobs I can twist, windows I can crank, and a heater that roars like it’s had a few drinks.
None of this bullshit where your ride needs WiFi to unlock the doors or gets emotional about cold weather.

And the cost? Like paying full price for a date that never shows up—just you, alone with the check and a console full of lies.

I’m not here to impress anyone.
I just want to get from Point A to Point B without selling a kidney or learning a second language to understand what the hell’s lighting up.

But that’s not how the game’s played anymore.
Now it’s touchscreens, Bluetooth, mood lighting, and Teslas that drive themselves into potholes like everyone else—only smugger.

Milwaukee winters don’t care what badge you’ve got on the hood.
The salt will rust your dreams the same either way.

Truth is, I don’t want horsepower.
I want peace.
I want a car that doesn’t text me its feelings or need therapy every 10,000 miles.

Just four wheels, a decent stereo, and that quiet kind of freedom that doesn’t come with a subscription.

I know it’s a dying dream.
I know they don’t make them like that anymore.
But hell—
a man’s gotta believe in something.

And me?
I believe in Point A to Point B.
Everything else is just bullshit with a Bluetooth connection.