I’m renting a car while I look for a new one. Today I went in to pick up the rental. Here’s the conversation that took place at the counter (note, rental counter is adjacent to a body shop):

Rental Guy: Is your car in the shop?

Me: My car was totaled. It was a ‘93 Mustang.

RG: Oh no! Well, I have an Impala and a Challenger. Would you like one of those?

Me, thinking he is trying to upsell: Oh, I just want the cheapest thing.

RG: I’ll give it to you for the same price [as the reservation for the cheapest thing]

Me: I’d like the Challenger, please

Guise, I am driving a 2019 Challenger for the next week and a half! I am so excited. I want to roll around naked in it. I want to drive to Vegas in it. I’m not sure if I want to have sex *in* the back seat or have sex *with* the back seat.


I pass through a security check at the entrance to my work site, and one of the security guards (female, which made me happy—holla, car gals) yelled, “Nice car, ma’am!”

Of course, I am freaking out over getting even the slightest scratch on it, so I’m taking surface roads and staying within the speed limit (which I always do, anyway), but omg I am so in love with the version of fwc who drives a Challenger. This weekend, I plan to drive on the expressway far enough to hit the part where the speed limit is 75 so I can feel what it’s like to go that fast in a car that can actually do it (my first love, my beloved fox body, the light of my life, had trouble going much over 65).


Finally, life is unfair in my favor.