Old schoolbuses bought at auction, school name just barely marked out with cheap watery black spray paint, and stuffed with old pianos or furniture or whatever the fuck, and with a couple of decorative bulletholes. Seriously, I could look at pictures of dilapidated schoolbuses all day long.
I have discovered that, thus far, my favorite Polaroid of a car to take is to find those random junkers, not part of organized junkyards, that sit along the edges of the woods, where plant’s are starting to sprout up enough to swallow them back up. This lounger was chilling on a gravel road that heads to a state park that I wasted a few hours at last week because I didn’t really feel like working that much. Not that any of us do, but I am my own boss, which doesn’t really help pay the phone bill, but it has its advantages.
To have enough junk vehicles in your possession to make a decision like, “You know, I think I’ll start using the bed of that one particular truck right over there by that pile of pine logs that aren’t fit for indoor burning in the woodstove to store all my extra unused milk crates.” That’s some shit I aspire towards, and I had to get rid of most of my junk vehicles a year ago before a big party we had at the house. I’m down to just one and it ain’t even a truck. I’m still young though, and this is America, where the useless acquisition of consumer obsessions is fully endorsed and encouraged by the powers that be.
Often times, I take for granted the fact I live in a semi-rural area and get to drive by weird old trucks with like seven thousand dollars worth of Mad Maxish barely necessary things welded and bolted onto the fronts. I am glad to be sharing our impressive makeshift poverty of style with you, Mrs. Anonymous Internet. I know you won’t enjoy it, because you are a fickle bitch, just like your mother Al Gore. But fuck you, I’m doing it anyways.
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