Made For Me

Transcript

Okay, full disclosure, this story, this story is about you, but it's also going to be a story about cars and about some self-reflection and reflection in general. Before I even get started, it's important for me to give you a little bit of backstory. I actually wrote this story.

I actually put pen to paper a little while ago, and you, you are playing a starring role in this story. That's important. However, I will tell you right now, if you don't feel like hearing Jeremy talk about frustrations, how mechanically uninclined he is, then maybe this is one you want to pass on.

However, if not, then put your headphones on, strap in, and get comfortable. I think this is a good one. So without further delay, here we go.

Some time ago, at the peak of some frustration of mine, and at a moment where I suppose my bank account had enough zeros to support it, I fell into that rabbit hole of social media and YouTube. Now, I don't know if you guys are familiar with the same sort of rabbit hole. It's the one filled with car videos, and the kind of car videos that I'm talking about are not the ones filled with exotic cars, million-dollar cars this, $500,000 cars that, how fast can you go, oh my God, this is so amazing, no.

The car videos that I'm talking about are the ones where the guy goes to the junkyard and brags about how he spent almost nothing on some car, some car that you used to drool over when you were younger, how he got it for nothing and then spent next to nothing to bring it back to life with almost seemingly no effort. Well, let's be realistic here. Typically, these are mechanics.

These are people who do this almost for a living. In fact, they have these YouTube channels and Instagrams. It's basically to promote their own business, and I get that.

I'm not an idiot, but I figured there's got to be some truth to that, right? When I came across that car, I couldn't help it. I bought it, and I wasn't surprised.

It needed a lot of work. True to all the content creators, I did spend almost nothing, but to be fair, it was pretty embarrassing going to the DMV to get plates and insurance for a car that I couldn't even drive. When I say I couldn't even drive it, it wasn't because I didn't have the ability.

It's because the fucking car wasn't able to be driven. My next move was, we need to fix this thing, and I was too embarrassed to tell anybody about it. I wasn't super mechanically inclined.

I didn't even have the proper fucking tools, nor the knowledge or know-how, but thank you, YouTube, because they were going to tell me everything I needed to know. Well, I suppose we could fast forward just a slight bit, because you guys don't want to hear all about that, do you? You didn't come here for that.

I quote-unquote rented a small garage near the condo where I lived from an old man. He no longer used it. He told me I could keep the car there for next to nothing a month.

I had my friend who had a trailer drop the car off. We rolled it inside, and over the next couple of weeks, I would haul over my toolbox, a couple flashlights, and various rags and fluids and whatever. Every so often, at the peak of my frustration, after a difficult date, difficult work week, an argument with somebody, I'd spend a weekend there, toiling from morning to evening, trying to figure out how I could get this fucking car in some semblance of shape to get back on the road.

Maybe you thought I had some really, really dark, dirty, dirty, dirty little secrets. Well, folks, I hate to disappoint you. That's probably my dirtiest, dirtiest little secret, quite literally.

And I'm not kidding. And you see, when I met you, I didn't even tell you about the car. I was embarrassed.

I was so close, so close to getting this thing finally almost there. Hundreds, I don't know. Maybe I lost count.

I would, thousands of hours that I put into this thing. I don't know if I mentioned before, I'm not a mechanic, and I'm not mechanically inclined, and I'm also clumsy. Plus, I don't have like a real shop.

I worked in like a small little garage with a flashlight. Not exactly the same kind of conditions that all these YouTubers are working in. Add to that, what I, at this point, figured was the final piece of the puzzle was that this car, Japanese, of course, car that I drooled over and loved, well, the motor.

The motor was quite tightly packed into the engine compartment. What I needed to do, or the current problem as I understood it, was that there was a pipe that connected the intercooler to the turbo. And there was a small, small piece between those two, a gasket, if you will, that was leaking and needed to be replaced.

That's it. Sounds pretty fucking simple. Sure.

And fuck, if you watch on YouTube, I mean, it's a five minute video. Everybody can do it. Not even a big deal.

Well, everybody can do it if you have a mechanic shop. Everybody can do it if you have five fucking people to help you. And everybody can do it if you can lift the motor out of the fucking car to do it.

Now, if you're Jeremy and you have none of those things, you have basically one option. And that option is basically to get underneath that car, smush your face against many, many, many dirty, disgusting parts of that car, and blindly find about four or five bolts, unscrew them with your wrist in some really weird, twisted way. Hopefully, don't lose them.

Somehow, pull the thing apart with only two hands, replace it, replace the bolts, tighten them, and then you should be off to the races. Sounds pretty easy. I had waited six or seven weeks to get this part from a junkyard from a guy in Japan.

For a ridiculous amount of money that I probably couldn't afford. And now I found the time to do it. I didn't tell anybody what I was going to be doing that day.

I woke up early, skipped the gym, jumped in my normal, regular Mazda, drove to that little shop, clean, pristine, ready to go with my cup of coffee. I would spend the next four and a half hours almost crying, trying to finagle that part off, trying to figure out what I had done wrong in life, that I was being punished for this atrocity. It was very, very defeating, as you might imagine.

And the hard part, really, the hard part wasn't really getting the part off. It wasn't a matter of strength or dexterity or any of that. It wasn't even the fact that I could barely get my fat, big hands up between the pipe and the motor.

It was more that I couldn't see. And I was doing this blindly because, again, I'm not a mechanic and I don't have the right tools or a lift or a way to look at the motor or pull it out or any of that. And then it occurred to me, after doing a little self-reflection, if you will, what if, what if I, what if I had a mirror?

If I had a mirror, I could probably put it in front of my face and see that bolt. It would be much easier for me to spin it and see which way it was spinning. And fuck, we might be done.

Long story short, I ripped the fucking sun visor off of that car and went to town. Now, it wasn't as simple as I'm describing. I still spun it wrong about four or five, six hundred fucking times before I got it right.

But I got it. Seven and a half hours, my hand cut up a little bloody, disgustingly dirty. Before I was done and slammed that hood closed with any kind of satisfaction, I figured one thing I should probably do is check a line that runs to the turbo.

It's a line that provides oil. It's a little, little tube. And I just wanted to make sure before I started it, which I didn't plan on doing that day, just that it was working.

Ah, fuck it. Ah, fuck it. So I reached down, undid one screw, pulled it out, pointed it at my face.

And what do you know? I got a face full of oil. It was as if the car just came on me all over my face.

In my mouth, up my nose, in my eyes. I could taste 10W-40, and it doesn't taste good, by the way. I had oil running down my neck into my shirt.

My hands were so dirty, I was afraid to wipe it away from my face. Again, my frustration was incessant and didn't end. I left the garage, taking my hands, wiping them across my jeans.

I got in my clean car and drove home, extremely hungry, extremely frustrated. And then I remembered, I, I'm going to see you tonight. Oh, well, there's no way I'm going to see you tonight.

There's that saving grace, I guess. 30 minutes later, I'm in my bathroom, going to town with this abrasive mechanic soap. I can feel it almost tearing up my skin.

It's horrible. It's going to require a lot of moisture, either. You see, I'm a really clean guy.

I like to smell good. I like to look good. I like soft skin.

It's important to me. And I don't like being dirty. I cut my nails extra short and I can see the dirt under them.

And it bothers me. I spend extra time with that nail brush, going to work. And I'm thinking about you as I look in the mirror.

I think about that wonderful meal. I think about how hungry I am, not just to eat, but how hungry I am to see you and be with you. I think about how silly those YouTubers are.

It's just a mirror. The mirror. That's all it was.

My stomach crumbles as I wash off the soap from my body. I exit the tub, dry myself off, and get ready to meet you. I shoot you a text and tell you I'm on my way.

20 minutes later, I arrive at your place. I really didn't want to come inside. I just wanted you to come outside so we can go grab some food and start the best part of this day at 8 p.m.

I was so hungry. I'd been looking forward to this all day long. But she sent me a text.

Come on in, I'm almost ready. Fuck, I thought to myself. I was angry.

Not at you. At me. When I get inside, you're sitting on your bed.

Your head is in your hands. You're wearing a bra, panties. You're not even dressed and there's clothes everywhere.

I'm puzzled. I take a step forward. What's wrong, baby? My stomach grumbles again.

You tell me that you don't feel pretty. You don't want to go anywhere. And you're not even hungry.

And I should be the one to go get you. You're sitting there, right in front of your mirror, and I approach you, placing an arm around your neck, and then around your shoulder, softly rubbing your head against mine. I lean forward, easing you up off the bed, placing my arms around you.

You smell wonderful. I could tell you just got out of the shower. I've been waiting for you all day.

We made plans. Come on, baby. You look great.

I don't care what you wear. Just throw on anything. You were made for me.

You know that. You're shaking your head, though. Your intention is to fight this no matter what.

I move around to your back. I push my back around, and now your back is pressed against my chest. My head, nested against yours, I slowly move my right hand around your belly, moving up across your pretty breasts.

I unbutton my jeans. I unbutton my jeans, letting them fall to the floor. To prove exactly what I mean, you can already feel how hard my cock is.

I don't have to say a word. Moments later, you can feel as I'm thrusting up into you.