Note to self:
Why don't we tell stories about our first cars instead? My first car was a 1995 Chevy Corsica, named Red Leader after the character from Star Wars. (Yes, that Red Leader...the one who plummeted to a fiery death on the surface of the Death Star. In retrospect, I probably should have chosen a less prophetic name. I actually wanted to call him Rogue, as a Star Wars reference, but everyone thought it was an X-Men reference, so I had to abandon that idea.) My precious Red Leader served me well from 2000 until last July, when he suffered wounds the repair of which would have cost about four times what he was worth (extrinsically...his intrinsic value to me was beyond quantification), so I bought a new car, which I named James after the fourth president of the United States (and also so I could say "Home, James").
James and I get along pretty well, but he's just no Red Leader. Other than being considerably younger and having better fuel economy, he has no advantages over my well-beloved Corsica.
Well, he does have cruise control. And a CD player. And working drink holders. And power windows. And power side mirrors.
But he just doesn't have the heart.
(I really shouldn't anthropomorphize inanimate objects to the extent I do...I even felt a little guilty when I ogled Corvettes while behind Red Leader's wheel.)
Feel free to share first-car reminiscences in the comments.
Update, Just Because of Dave:
When I said to feel free to share your reminiscences, I meant stories that don't involve making out or bugs.