My Chameleon Car.

Though I am sure you’ve noticed; I loathe driving. I don’t like cars and I spot beauty in them only through Tarantino movies. The Ford in Pulp Fiction where Travolta chased dragons, the Dodge in Death Proof which the belle Bell had a proper adrenaline orgasm on and a few other similarities can only stimulate me. In addition, I fuel my ugly first impressions about men who have car-fetish with further ugliness. I hate it when I’m stuck with people in a car playing music I don’t like. I hate it when I am stuck with people in a car – that has one driver and much more smart asses trying to find Dijkstra’s shortest path in a bloody hot discussion to reach a 20-mins away destination. Who would want Dijkstra or any other in a beautifully laid out binary Cairo – Salah Salem or Autostrad, 6th of October Bridge or Azhar Tunnel, Downtown or Ring Road? The road you don’t take is always better, BEAU.

My chameleon car can change colour due to a lot of externals. I don’t want a Porsche. My car will have hurricanes of butterflies (may Muse allow me to rephrase) coming out of its back. Its colour will change depending on the music being played in it, the street it’s roaming and finally my word. My car will not have a horn, instead it will spread glitter like that coming out of Tinkerbell’s wand every time it wants to grab others’ attention. During early winter mornings, I will always forget my Irish latte mug on top its roof and take off quickly, but I’ll stop to pick the mug and the latte vapour coming out of its top will be the wake up aroma of the whole town. Finally, my car will not be a total saint, the bitch side of it will float on the surface when binary road decisions are discussed in a hot bloody debate. I forgot to say it spits humans at the sky.