Dear Chico,
I miss you. Please come home. The last few days with Captain America have opened my eyes. Despite his name, he is no kinda superhero. He has manual door locks and windows. When I look up, I see not blue sky, but grey flannel. His side panels rattle when I crank the bass on the radio. When I slam the gas pedal to the floor, I do not feel the ten-millisecond delay before blasting off into hyperspace, I feel the several-second delay as he struggles to achieve the speed limit. Also, he is that bright medium-blue of the dress shirt every businessman owned back in 2001. Just try looking even remotely cool in a sensible, economical, American-made vehicle of that color. That’s right, you can’t. I’m sorry I said you were a traitor. I’m sorry for calling you ghetto. You’re not a junker at all. Come home and I’ll treat you right. You’ve got the new brakes and you’re all squeaky-clean, and soon you’ll have a new tire and rear panel. I’ll do your oil change and air filter, and even the hood struts. It’ll be just like the old days, only better. You just don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Longingly,Jenni