Dear Wagon,
I killed you. You deserved better.
From January 2006 until January 2012 you were my trusty steed.
130,000 miles in 5 years is a workhorse rate, and you held the line strong.
In essence, I've had my foot on your throat the whole time with no remorse, yet after delivering this fatal blow I can't shake the guilt.
9 degrees is too cold for the amount of oil that was in your engine. You choked to death.
Neglect. It's so pathetic. Between the wedding in October, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve and the countless lessons and gigs on top... NO WAGON, I HAD NOT THOUGHT ABOUT YOU SINCE SEPTEMBER.
I carry around with me a Shitlist, all my shortcomings, faults, unfulfilled commitments and unkept promises, neatly organized into groups, on a piece of paper, in my back pocket. You haven't been on the list in months, Wagon. Hindsight screams that you should have been.
I killed you and you are dead now and you deserved better.
Oil is more important than Gas.
Your ghost lives on in this mantra, permanently etched into my brain, in the cold cursive from a Quill of Guilt.
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