Pride and Batteryjuice

I have a car. A sweet one too. Maybe it's just because its mine and I left my own clumsy mark on it (the mirror is still in the process of being repaired), but I like it. I call it my Granny Car with pride--espeacially when I just feel like crusin' five miles under the speed limit because I know I can get away with it. My little brother illustrated this well when we couldn't decide what radio station to listen to, us having immensly different tastes, and so he turned it to some Beethoven mess saying, "it fits this car" and making me feel for the world like I was in one of those really old movies.

Yeah, I dig my Buick.

It also has this nifty little ability to keep its lights on just long enough for you to haul in the groceries or to avoid tripping over the neighbor's toy truck on your way the door. This was something I took for granted until the other day at school.

"Your lights are on."

"Yeah," I curtly nodded, "They'll go off in a minute."

A moment later,

"Hey, your lights are on."

"I know. They'll go off in a little bit."

"Your lights--"

"Yeah, I know."

What were these people's problem? I stubbornly thought to myself, I think I know my own car, thank you very much!

So imagine my frustration when, shortly after having gotten home from...something that's must've not been important enough for me to remember, my dear friend texts me and says, "Hey, ur lights r on."

"What the snoodles?" I asked aloud, drawing my Mom's attention.

"Actually," she muttered, "They should've turned off by now."

She had a point. So, rolling my eyes at myself, I replied with a "thx" and headed out to see that my lights were, indeed, on.

Later that night, after reflecting on my foolish pride over something so silly and taking my friends' concern for granted, I still found my thoughts wandering in the same direction over something else of little concequence. Then, from my good-natured concious came the thought: Gees, Annelie, turn your lights off.