The dealer assured that it was a wonderful car, but the way it skids up to stop signs making me lurch in my seatbelt causes me great pain, emotionally and physically. It veers ever so slightly into the opposite lane on occasion making me suppress screams as my insides turn to jelly. Sometimes it creeps slowly along the road as if to lull me into a feeling of safety before it abruptly swerves around a curbside rubbish bin with obvious violent intent.
I’m not sure what causes the Were-Honda to change from a docile economy sedan and into a car with sadistic tendencies, but I suspect it has some attachment to my daughter. Like a poltergeist is attracted to the young, this car seems to show it’s worst when she gets behind the wheel… almost as if she is somehow channeling the Accord’s inner angst into a physical manifestation of motorized mayhem.
Fortunately she will be getting her license in the near future and will no longer require me to ride shotgun, but I fear at what affect this Honda may have on her when she is alone with it. Already I sense a bond between the two that may prove an issue in the future.
Things are out of my control at this point, and I fear that all we can do is pray.