Moping for a Moped

I tried really hard to make it clear in my last post that my Emo-ness was just a freak thing and that I was not actually suffering anything close to real depression. However, this did not stop people from speculating and worrying about me and trying to keep me from suicidal thoughts. I guess people love me.

I'll admit it though. There may have been a reason. And it may have had something to do with heartbreak. And the culprit may have been this beauty:

After working my butt off and pinching pennies for so long, my heart was in desperate need of a reward. (Plus I needed a way to get to work.) I looked through hundreds of classified ads, prayed, hungered, researched, and made phone calls. I really wanted one that I could trust. I knew I was long overdue for some lovin'.

I shouldn't have given my heart away so carelessly. Two weeks after we met, he died. (Yes, for those I've already talked to about this, I realize I used to call it a "she." But I realized that only a male could have broken my heart like this.) I found a friend with a truck and we took him to the shop. I had hope. I thought, my love extends $1-$200 more dollars. I sat, waiting for the diagnosis, hoping for the best.

There I was, still all dressed up in my work clothes and high heels, surrounded by grease-covered mechanics and middle-aged motorcyclists, the only female in the room. I was trying to act tough. I wanted everyone to know that I was not to be screwed over. But what was to come was bad news, each sentence stabbing me like a knife. One of the mechanics called me over for the estimate. "The guy who fixed this up didn't take care of this oil leak." Stab. "We not only have to replace the muffler, we have to replace (long list of parts.)" Stab. "This will cost @#$%! dollars to fix." STAB. All the men in the room were listening and my pride was reduced to shreds. "Isn't there any way you could just get it running without doing all that? It doesn't have to be perfect," I tried. "No," came the answer. My heart was reduced to miniscule shards of glass. I nodded in dumb silence as he explained about pistons and shafts and carburetors. It was all useless. I just don't have the money.

I didn't cry though. Not until I was alone. There he still sits, in the basement parking garage, waiting for me pay the price to win him back. I worked so hard for him. A few more months of starvation is probably worth it, I think to myself periodically. But all the sacrifice I already put into him! Will it ever end? Probably not. I will probably buckle and clean out my bank account for him. I'm just a sucker for the good-looking ones.