zesticle.com

My car is trying to kill me. I’m not entirely sure why, though I think it might stem from a curb-jumping incident just before Christmas. I don’t know what the hell its problem is, though, as it was fine afterward. No damage to the tire or rim or anything.

It’s gunning for me Green Mile-style. Electrocution. Every time I get out and close the door, a small jolt of electricity arcs from the door to my fingertips. It doesn’t feel great, but it’s certainly not enough juice to kill anything larger than a fruitfly. “You’ll have to do better than that, car!” I could be heard saying recently.

“Fine,” my car apparently thought to itself. “You asked for it, you’re gonna get it.” I’m sure it would’ve laughed maniacally to itself if it had the means. Sadly, all the Scion is capable of is internal monologue.

Its response is apparently more than just an empty threat. I went to put gas in the tank yesterday and was rudely greeted with another large spark. It took me a second to realize what was happening, but I finally saw the writing on the wall. Even though I had just been shocked by the door, the car had mustered up another load of electricity and delivered it where it could have caused some real damage.

Right by the gas tank.

Fortunately, there was no ignition of gas fumes as the cap was still on, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before the car gets the timing down and blows me up while I’m filling the tank. I’ll get blown to smithereens, ripped limb from limb, flesh violently torn from bone and sinew. It’ll be chalked up to a freak accident, and my family will probably win a large settlement from whichever gas station it is that I stopped at on the day it happens. But all of you will know what really happened.