dream on

from the first time i learned about this british beauty i've loved it. i love the looks, the simplicity, and the heritage(there're auxiliary loves besides the primary ones, like the looks people throw at it and how cool its very name sounds). i've always laughed at my mom's reason for buying the pug; she liked how the front grille looks like a big smiley. but i'm no better because those grilles distinguish it from all the other roadsters of its time and i'm in love with them.

it's called a triumph spitfire(ain't it cool?!!). there were five variants produced but i only like the first two. because only they have the grilles and the semi-boat-tail taillights. i don't even mind the lower power because let's face it, none of them is going to beat any speed records. so what's one or two mph less?

so when i saw one for sale i teleported straight to the dealer. everything i saw there reinforced just how much i like this babe.

it's exquisite. it's the british racing green i envisioned, with black(what else?) interior, a wooden dash, and they're throwing in the targa roof on top of the canvas one. and the best thing is it's on a normal number plate instead of those stupid useless classic plates. i nearly went fucking apeshit. but before that i checked underneath the chassis for rust, wear and tear, which were nonexistent. and then i went fucking apeshit.

and then a thought flittered through my mind: could it have been this if not for the morris? what have i given up?

i can contemplate giving up the silvia for a spitfire, albeit a little reluctantly. having said that, my hatred for this shithole far outweighs my fondness for this thing. so i'll get it in the other land. and if it's more rare than a chimera even there, well then. i can always make do with a silvia. heh. or a couple of Ducatis. woot!

cutting notches

on my way home on the highway, this type-r boy racer in front tried to show me the power of his car. guess he just didn't like the fact that i could keep up with him. but guess what. he was such a joke that i'm just going to call him a her starting... now.

so she made the mistake of going behind a slow car and got stuck there. while i breezed past. and then she tried to keep up with me by throwing some dangerously stupid maneuvers. i kept my speed constant to give her a chance and still she couldn't do it.

now let's see some numbers to get a clearer picture.

honda civic type-r: 225bhp

peugeot 407: 150+bhp when new, and it decreases with age.

so if you haven't got the balls to max it out, do not fucking do it.

and after that she threw some more dangerous maneuvers and finally got in front. but i didn't see the point in catching up, so i watched as she buttstuck to one car after another in a bid to get away from me.  as i made my exit.

arrogance? yes.

but then your fucking jap tuner just got raped by a fucking french luxury saloon and that's a fact, alright? go take up knitting, bitch.

fun in the car

yim: i called you twice this morning. then i gave up and came straight over. you should really employ a secretary to blow you awake every morning.

me: hahahahaha! a fine idea, my friend!

breaked

bonnie checked out as well.

i should never have gone out when she refused to eat the carrots. i should have done something. anything.

i was afraid to touch her. to find out that she'd truly gone stiff.

i understand now why people shed tears when those they hold dear perish.

the combined wave of shock, grief, regret, guilt, and the inability to express anything.

the ultimate futility of even forming coherent thoughts.

i caused this.

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