My dirty little secret

I have a secret. It’s my dirty little secret.


In June 2013 my car broke down. It broke down properly. Of course in peak rush hour on a busy road. I had to get a tow truck company to tow me to the mechanic. To repair it would cost more than the value of the damn thing. So I had it scrapped and bought a nifty little secondhand car. A nice one. A looks-like-new nice secondhand car.


Then from October last year to March 2014, I was wading through the deepest depression I have encountered so far. A very dark patch. No sooner was I out the depression than into one of the most extreme mania’s I’ve ever experienced. And here I am in July 2014, finally levelling out. Hopefully, levelling out.


The past year has seen me brought to my knees due to mental illness. And what’s the dirty secret, you ask? My car is my dirty little secret. It’s my filthy, dirty little secret. Thoughout all the depression, the mania, the side effects from increased medication, my terrible divorce and my sheer force of will to keep my job, throughout all this I never once, not twice, but never, ever never never ever washed my beautiful car.


I am so ashamed. Always look after things I own. I don’t know where the time went! I mean a year, a whole year, 365 days, and I’ve never washed my car. It’s shocking and I am suitably embarrassed, ashamed, humiliated you name it.  But sometimes, I’m only able to do the best I can.  And I figure, as long as I’m trying, I’m winning, dirty car be damned.


Sooooo, guess what I’m doing this weekend? Yep – my baby’s going to a car wash.


Say what you mean, and mean what you say

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