|5" x 7" |
reserved for c. terrell
the freeway is no way to spend a day. after five hours with my sweaty ass sticking to a vinyl seat, a load of memorabilia blocking my rear view, blaring 90's grunge flashback radio, and white-knuckles on the wheel like it was a lifeline, i'm sure glad to be home. my truck has been good to me, and that's why i call it my lucky truck: adorned with feathers, dingle balls, decals and good luck charms, it's the only piece of heavy machinery i haven't crashed. between the ages of sixteen and eighteen i crashed my six cars six times. as a last ditch, i got dad's truck. when he bought it for about a grand, there was still hay sticking out the door from the farm it came from. since then, i've dropped the engine and rebuilt the clutch, replaced four blown tires, gotten new brakes, and more, all for a little thing that blue-books for barely over $600. but it's my lucky truck, and as the saying goes, "better an ounce of luck than a pound of gold". my trusty stallion, with nearly 200 g's on the ticker, has driven me from here to there a million times, safely. so i say: its been worth every penny.