You liked the idea of having a car, your car, and now you had one, a Ford. But it wasn’t what you expected, it treated you poorly. You washed it, you vacuumed it, and then when you turned the key, it sputtered and died.
When you drove it you never knew if you’d reach your destination. You figured you might have to call your dad. When you drove it to a burger joint you worried it might die in line, and the sign with the joint’s name on it, a giant clown rocking back and forth would mock you. Sometimes when your new car died you couldn’t reach anyone and had to walk.
And when you got it home it seemed to say: I love you, I love you not, I love you, I love you not.
So no one should have been surprised that day when they found you in the driveway with your car and a bucket of paint. They probably wondered why you were painting a lightbulb on the door until they saw, next to the bulb, in your finest script, a caption: “Ford’s gotta have a better idea.”