Let's be Kim's 1997 Subaru

Also use this thread for reference.

I'm the Dreamcatcher hanging from the rearview mirror.

I’m her 12-disk CD changer, loaded with Melissa Etheridge, KD Lang, Indigo Girls, Tracy Chapman, Phranc, Sophie B Hawkins, Michelle Shocked, Wynonna, and Me’chelle N’delecello. I’m a pre-millennial time capsule.

I'm the accumulated fast food wrappers on the dashboard.

I'm the dirty vagina smell in the upholstery.

I'm the flannel car seat covers.

I am the photo of R1.

I'm the fish scented car-freshener.

I'm an ancient, faded, peeling WBAI bumper sticker next to a fresh RESIST bumper sticker.

I'm the bottle of patchouli in the center console, used to enhance the vagina smell.

I'm the plastic flask-sized bottle of Smirnoff in the glove compartment, on top of the paperwork for the latest DUI.

I’m the Bob’s Stores Black Friday discount coupon in the cup holder. This is the only time of the year that coupons can be used on Carhartt clothes!

I'm the radio. My FM presets are to the local Pacifica affiliate, the local NPR affiliate, the college station that has the folk shows, and the other college station that does the "Women's Music" block on Saturday. And, though she would deny she set it on purpose, the local classic rock station. Because after a few nips of that vodka, when she's alone in the car and out of the neighborhood, Kim's up for a little head-bobbing to some Guns N' Roses or AC/DC.

I'm the permanently folded down back seat where Darlene's sex drive (now retired) was first discovered. My owner, Kim, would enjoy a few Bartles & Jaymes, then go out and park near the hiking trails by the reservoir. She would hump and rub Darlene until they were both sore, though Kim, for obvious reasons, never really felt it until a day or two later. The last time that happened, at least with Darlene, was 18 years ago. Lesbian bed death is indeed a thing, thank god. If Kim would only clean me, my 21 year old upholstery would look, and smell, like 2.

I am the shrill, high-strung gay man who bitches about Darlene behind her back because Darlene never offers me a ride in that disgraceful Subaru of hers. I totaled my mother's station wagon last month and don't have a car to get to the last remaining gay bar in my impossibly dreary town. I'm 47 but look 49.

I'm a crumpled polypropylene reusable grocery bag with the logo of the local food co-op. I reside near the wheel well and I haven't been used in two years. I'm a bitter reminder of the dispute between Darlene and the co-op board over two months of unfulfilled work-hour commitments in the bulk grain section, which ultimately resulted in the banning of the Darlene-Kim household from the co-op. Lately, Kim has been passive-aggressively flirting with danger by icily commenting to Darlene on the high prices of kale, quinoa, and gluten-free crackers at the health food store.

I'm the empty diet Mountain Dew bottle that Kim uses as a cuspidor.

I’m the dried out Pine tree shaped air freshener that has faded with decades of sun yet still reeks of fake evergreen.

I'm Kim's American Spirits in the left cupholder, and Darlene's Marlboro Reds in the right cupholder.

I'm the second flask of Smirnoff under the driver's seat, "just in case."

I'm the rust.

I’m the layer of dust along the dashboard.

I'm the trailer hitch that hauled Kim's worldly goods to Darlene's when they first moved in together, 4 days after meeting. It's been 8 years since I hauled a damn thing but Kim isn't removing me. She says I might be useful for hauling camping equipment but I think she's hedging her bets with Dar.

I'm the dent in the fender and the crack in the tail light.

I’m the Ignition Interlock that Kim is legally required to use for a year before her driver’s license can be restored.

I’m the stench of Marlboro Lights in the upholstery. Kim hasn’t smoked in years but I’m never coming out.

I’m the blood stains on the front seats.

I love you, R27.

I’m the check engine light that has been on continuously since 2001.

I am the total lack of cleaning supplies.

Ready for my close up!

I'm the distorted shape of the driver's seat.

I'm the Single Remix of Stevie Nicks' "Rhiannon" which is on the CD of the 2004 re-release of the 1975 Fleetwood Mac album, Stevie's first with the band.

Kim LOVES to sing along to me as she is secretly picking up a 30-pack of Keystone Light!

"RHIA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-NON!!!!!!!!!! FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!!!"

I'm the dent in the dashboard Sar left when she hit off one time. She often looks over at me passive-aggressively.

I'm the road surface that can be seen through the small rusted out hole in the floor behind the driver's seat.

I'm the COEXIST bumper sticker that's been on the rear bumper since just after Obama took office. Two days after Trump was elected, Kim slapped the RESIST sticker right over me. She was drunk and snottily snuffling, she'd been drinking and crying for two days straight, and she didn't feel like fucking coexisting with JACK SHIT any more!

I’m the Gore/Lieberman 2000 sticker, barely visible under the decades of dirt on the bumper.

I am the dry bones of a long dead muskrat under her drivers seat.

I’m the pathetic fag sitting in the backseat. I’m so unaccomplished in my own life that I try to make myself feel better by contributing to misogynistic posts. I’m a huge loser. Everyone knows it.

I'm R39. I'm a huge misandrist. But "everyone" is misogynist so that makes it ok.

I’m the “f*g” word uttered throughout the event by a few who think it’s the equivalent of “d*ke” in that cool reclaimed sense.

[quote]I’m her 12-disk CD changer, loaded with Melissa Etheridge, KD Lang, Indigo Girls, Tracy Chapman, Phranc, Sophie B Hawkins, Michelle Shocked, Wynonna, and Me’chelle N’delecello. I’m a pre-millennial time capsule.

I'm Patty, the friend from the Thanksgiving dinner who looks and dresses like Dwight Schrute. I've tried to tell Kim to no avail that Michelle Shocked is canceled.

I'm the faded Provincetown beach permit stickers in the car window from '94 and '95. That was when Kim was with Babe. Those were happier times. Kim tells Dar she was single then, but Dar has always had her suspicions about those stickers.

I'm the broken dashboard hula girl under the seat. A couple years ago, Kim made the mistake of driving a friend of Dar's, Liz, home from the Food Co-Op. Liz was aghast that Kim would exhibit such an insensitive, implicitly violent example of colonialism and pandering to the male gaze. Kim, irritated, later asked Dar whether she thought Liz had a point, expecting that Dar would say the whole thing was silly, since the hula girl had been there for a year. "I think it's cultural appropriation," Dar had snarled, "and I think it's tacky, and ignorant, and it's very presumptious for you to assume it's OK for you to use the rape of Hawaiian culture and the sexualization of native Polynesian girls as a cute little decoration." Kim impulsively grabbed the hula girl, ripped her off the dash, and flung her over her shoulder as she drove.

Hula girl eventually settled under the driver's seat, her dancing stilled forever. The partially torn white adhesive foam disk remains on the dashboard, a mute testimony to Dar's disloyalty and willingness to take anyone's side against Kim. But who cares anyway? A little vodka makes it all so unimportant.

I love you, R44.

That Hula girl argument with Dar put Kim on a four-day bender, which resulted in the cracked fender on the '97 Subaru and a stay in the drunk tank at County Regional.

I'm The Club, also from 1997.

I'm the lyrics being bellowed by a sloshed Kim as Dar begs her to stop singing and pull over before she gets her license permanently revoked:

You say you haven't been rocked in a long, long time

Oh, a good hard rockin' is so hard to find, baby

Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you shout

Oh, your homemade lovin' done knocks me out, baby

Oh, now I've looked long and hard for you

And you seem to know what I'm fixin' to do, baby

Oh, you want a little love, that's all right

Oh, your fruit ain't rotten, it's oh so ripe

Oh, now your momma sure done raised you right

When it comes to home cooking you eat every bite

Take your sweet time, got all night

I'm gonna show you how to rock me right

Come on now, rock me right

Rock me right

Rock me right

I'm gonna show you how to rock me right

Rock me right, now

Oh Lord

Years ago, when Dar still had a little twinkle left in her eye, she made eye contact with Susan Tedeschi, her dream wombyn, on the patio of the Snug Harbor Fish Company and Dar [italic]knows[/italic] that Susan winked at her. She just knows.

For a split second she wondered how much her life would change with all of that convenience-store money to fall back on. Not in a greedy way....she just saw herself being able to buy new books on release day without a second thought rather than spending months on the library's waiting list before checking them out with goddess-knows-what stuck between the pages.

But then Kim stumbled back from the Subaru with their entire collection of Susan Tedeschi CDs, dropped the pile on her table knocking over the drawn butter and said, "hey, you got a pen?" as a loud smelly burp slipped out.

Dar plays them over and over as an act of self-flagellation and has even has Kim believing that Rock Me Right is "our song."

I'm FFing R39 and encouraging everyone else to do so.

I'm the sunflower seed shells in the diet Mountain Dew spittoon.

So... what's with the ten "let's pretend we're lesbians" threads this week?

There's always been a handful of guys complaining about lesbians around here but this seems like overkill.

And I've been here nearly 15 years so don't pull the "it's all in good fun thing" with me, because I know better. I'm just curious as to what's going on.

[quote] I'm a huge misandrist

Oh, wait, is this a thread by some of those MRA college student Reddit types who pretend to be gay men? Because no adult with any sense uses the word "misandrist" seriously.

I'm the Kim and Dar in happier times, before the right driver's mirror was came off after Kim drove up on the kerb to hit a transwoman:

I'm the naked Barbie doll positioned on the rear view mirror with the base between my legs.

I'm a treasured photo of Lil (a mutual friend), Babe, and Kim taken at Lilith Fair. Kim felt so safe with Babe. She would never admit it, even to herself, not even today, but it was like having a big, strong loving man to take care of you. Without all the toxicity of masculinity, of course.

When Kim is trying her self-hypnosis and relaxation tapes, and the hypnotist says to picture herself in a happy place, she remembers seeing Jill Sobule walk on stage, and Babe looking at her with glee. Because with her and Babe, whatever made one of them happy made both of them happy. They were eating Cheez-Its and drinking two-buck Chuck and it tasted like manna from the gods. And when Sobule played Kim's favorite song, "I Kissed a Girl," Babe smiled, and leaned in, and grabbed her shoulders, and kissed her, lips rich with wine, kissed her so firmly, so lovingly -- not like it was a job, or a feminist duty, or a political statement, but like it was heaven for Babe, something she had been wanting to do forever and would want to do forever.

Now the wine is off limits. The junk food snacks are frowned on, and it's not worth the passive-aggressive remarks. And the kisses, when Dar gives them, feel dutiful and perfunctory. And the last time Kim was in a good mode -- and stone sober, no less! -- and started happily singing "I Kissed a Girl," Dar waited till the second verse and suddenly snapped, "What IS it with you and that stupid song?" She must know somehow. But this photo stays on the phone, where Dar will never find it, buried in a folder called "Tax Documentation 1995." And it comes out whenever Kim drinks.

I'm the middle finger given to the driver in the neighboring lane who looks over in disbelief at just how loud Rhiannon is blaring while stopped at traffic lights.

I'm the 'Increase Prostate Cancer!' bumper sticker purchased from a stall at Michfest.

I’m humor, I don’t exist in this car or anywhere else in Kim’s life. At least not since her glory days on the women’s soccer team at SUNY Cortland in the late 1980s.

I am the dirty, smelly, dog hair-covered, rough polyester throw that's crumplingly draped over the left side of the back seat for Ursula, the very large and shaggy rescue that's part sheepdog. Ursula doesn't use it. She has the run of the car when she's in it.

I'm the sleeping bag, MREs, and the can of Fix A Flat in the rear storage area. I'm ready for anything.

I'm the E-Z Pass in the window. I was loaded with money once with Kim's debit card, and when that was used up I was never topped off. The first time we got stopped for insufficient funds, Dar wouldn't shut up about Kim's irresponsibility for the rest of the 2-hour drive. Now Kim just chronically "forgets" and always has to go through the cash lane. She likes that it makes Dar helplessly seethe.

[quote]Now the wine is off limits.

That’s what you think, dumb bitch.

I'm the completely desiccated cube of $0.99 eye shadow that was purchased on impulse 17 years ago at the local Walgreens, now moldering under the driver's seat. There is a single smear in the middle, where Kim scooped out a chunk and applied it liberally to her eyelids, her cheekbones AND her lips right before the office Xmas party, in hopes of looking soft. I haven't been seen since.

I'm the glass tinctures set on the cupholders.