I am constantly worried about Ned. I triple check if I lock the doors, park miles away so people would have to really go out of their way to hurt him, thus making it less likely. I have these daymares of people intentionally fucking with him, and nightmares of people stealing him, and my sister totaling him. I’m a paranoid to the point of no reason; it’s love, obsessive love. I figure I’m overly protective because if someone comes up to Ned, and wants to key him or kick him, he can’t protect himself from them. I’d feel awful if someone did that, and I wouldn’t be able to get redemption for him on the anonymous assailant. He’s protected me in my car accidents. I owe it to him to do the same, but not only owe, I want to because I care about him.
Most days I feel like I’m just a little kid stuck inside of a 22 year old body. Ned’s just the same. A 32 year old body and a motor at 48,000 miles. We’re just two buddies, forever young at heart. Our mom’s will always worry, and worry they should.
Bondo is another name for Band-Aid
Ned came to me a wholesome, gorgeous, metal machine, but with me the inevitable happened.
I am the bull to the world’s china closet. I am also the world’s most absent minded bull so Ned hasn’t gotten the attention he truly deserves from me and for this I apologize to him daily (well at least on days I remember.). On a more positive note we recently put ‘the petal to the metal’ on getting him looking f i n e. Along with much help from Jude, my father, Ned’s wounds are mended with bondo, his signals taped up, and his name tag removed. The next step is his exhaust and then we continue our journey to paint. I’ve decided to keep him the same color. It’s who he is, and I can’t imagine him being anything else.
