Crashbox

Roslyn hates me. Her nasty little red light glowed stubbornly from the recesses of my dashboard this morning, and hopes of sleep and relaxing Sunday company drifted away like the morning fog. Like most women, she thinks she hates what she needs the most; no matter how often I tell her she can't live without oil, she remains obstinate. Kicking the gear from the end of her oil pump into the sludgy depths of her oil pan, I told her, was just plain silly. Now you must undergo surgery, my dear, and you know how that pains all of us. She will sit alone tied to trailer for a few days, until time and energy afford the necessary procedures. Perhaps in that time she will rethink her ways, and remember all that I have done for her. Foolish girl...