To my VW Passat,

Hey, baby girl, what’s good?

I just wanted to thank you for taking me from point a to point b and back again and for humoring my eclectic taste in music.

But, I also wanted to apologize.

I am sorry about that time that you needed gas, but I figured I'd get it before work the next day. That day turned into two days later and on the third day, you just stopped driving because you were actually very much out of gas.

It was then when I realized that that little symbol on the dash that symbolizes a gas pump isn't merely a suggestion.

I'm sorry for the time that I let your tire run down to six pounds per square Inch. The time that your windshield just randomly had a crack running through the middle of it, even though I still don't know how that happened.

I'm also sorry for the fact that I sometimes drive like I'm playing Grand Theft Auto. Nobody is ever harmed, of course.

For those and many other things, I am sorry. I will try to be better because you deserve only the best.

You taught me how to drive. It was in your very driver's seat that my 16-year-old self learned how to properly make a left turn. I’ve taken more than a handful of naps with you, and we're road trip buddies for life.

We’ve been through a lot, baby, more than most.

You're the '66 Thunderbird to my Louise, the Aston Martin to my James Bond, the DeLorean to my Marty McFly, the Greased Lightning to my Danny Zuko and the Vista Cruiser to my Eric Foreman.

More than anything, you should know that I am grateful. No matter how old you get, you still corner like you’re on rails. Whatever that means.

You’re feisty and you don’t take crap from anybody.

I think that’s why we get along so well.

You're a golden old gal, and while you may not be the best, the most fuel efficient, the most expensive or the hottest car I ever drive, you’ve got a place in my heart.

Brunhilde, I’ll never find a love like yours.


Your Owner.