I like my car. Or, I should say, I liked it. I am not a superstitious person and there are very few inanimate objects I'll ascribe intentions to, but I think my car is trying to make me hate it.
My cars have what you might call a 125000 mile curse: at that point they either break beyond repair, get totalled in a crash, or (rarely) get traded in while still functional. I swore it'd be different this time. My Mazda3 suits me very well, and it should be capable of 175000 miles if not more. So when it reached 125k, I put $2000 into it to fix an engine mount and work on the brakes and suspension. I thought that should keep the car on the road for another three years, at which point the inexorable advance of rust would claim it.
Almost immediately after the brake and suspension work, the squeaking and rattling came back. Can I get from point A to point B? Yes. Enthusiastically? No. I have to admit that driving past people in a car that is audibly in need of repair makes me feel *bad*. I can ignore that problem by rolling up the windows. However, earlier this summer my air conditioning began to flicker on and off.
Two weeks ago my turn signal stopped shutting itself off after right turns. The windshield wipers have been whacking loudly against the metal beside the glass for the last 40,000 miles. The A/C is unreliable. It squeaks like a bus and rattles like a coffee can full of rocks. And the rust is spreading.
And yesterday it wouldn't start.
It may be time to trade in this sled.
The mechanic says the only thing wrong is the battery, but I know: it doesn't like me. It wants to go sit in someone else's driveway. Maybe I'll grant its wish.