And when I say “hood," I don’t mean the part of the car…
I recently decided to leave my cushy job in the world of corporate finance and return to graduate school. One may think I have acquired ZERO financial knowledge during my time as a financial analyst, since this is the worst fiscal decision I could possibly make. Not only will I leave a well-paying and stable job in the middle of an economic downturn and one of the highest unemployment rates in recent history-- I will be paying to study all day. Not only that, but I will be making almost no money and have no job security when I finish school. Awesome. This is obviously riskier than bungee jumping, eating steak from a restaurant with a hearse parked out back, and trusting Nancy Pelosi with our nation’s finances…combined.
Nevertheless, I am excited about being a student again and getting my Master’s in Public Health. However, to prepare for the personal budget cuts, I am making some changes. Bye bye BMW, hello Honda. I figured owning a car that costs $800 for a routine brake job is no bueno for a poor student. So, I bought a Honda. After test driving endless cars with broken window regulators, crunchy brakes, and inspection sticker that have been expired for two years, I found the perfect car. I bought a 2005 Honda Accord, silver, for a great price.
And perhaps a great price for a good reason. A few days after the ink dried on my check, I started to put 2 and 2 together. As I slid into the leather driver’s seat, I noticed plenty of exciting buttons, and that the car looked and smelled clean—not a smoker car. When I was test driving the car, I looked up and noticed brown splatters on the ceiling. I thought perhaps a coke had exploded, or cigarette ashes had made their way to the roof… but not a smoker car… Hmmm.
After we drove, I took a look in the back seat. There was a quarter sized hole in the leather with singed edges around it. It was about 3 inches deep into the foam of the seat below as far as I could tell. I asked the man, bedecked with bling, about the origins of said hole. “A cigarette burn,” He said. But again, not a smoker car. I thought this was odd, but I bought the car and sent it to get the leather and the roof fixed.
But then the lightbulb in my head came on. Somebody was SHOT in the car! The roof stains were caused by a blood splatter, and the large “cigarette burn” through thick leather was the bullet hole! The carfax didn’t say “Murder” or “Crime Scene” on it, so I figured I would be okay. But I have to wonder if someday this will come back to bite me. This car definitely has a little hood under the hood.
I’m halfway expecting to get pulled over and hear, “Ma’am, please step out of the car.” Six months later, you can see me appearing in court wearing an orange uni pleading “Not Guilty” to murder.
I hear prison communication is limited, and let’s be honest, one phone call is not enough to plan an escape. So let’s just get it out of the way right now… If I land in the slammer, I would like for you to come visit me. Please bring mani-pedi supplies. But more importantly, bring a chocolate bunny with a chisel hidden inside. That way I can break out Shawshank Redemption style.
Thank you in advance for your help.
