Just over a year ago my 1993 Volvo kicked the bucket. I wasn’t terribly sad. I hated that car from day one. Apparently it hated me right back. The first month I had it the radiator blew cracking a gasket head and doing 3 grand in damage. For the next three years that car spent more time parked than running. When it was working it inhaled gas like Tony Montana. While the large trunk might have been appealing to border running coyotes, it didn’t do much for the single girl searching for parking in Los Angeles. The best thing about that car were the seats and the sound system. Had it not felt like I was driving a lazy-boy I would have gotten rid of it sooner. So after it sputtered to a hot death at the top of my hill my neighbors and I pushed it into a parking spot where it sat for two months until I made the call and donated it to charity. Since the death of the Volvo I have done my best with a bike and the limited public transportation offered by the city of Los Angeles. I have also had to burden friends with endless requests for rides and as you know I already have difficulty maintaining friends so this certainly hasn’t helped. I believe that though many people now enjoy my calmer, more optimistic (for me) demeanor, they are tired of being my unpaid taxi driver. There is a strain that while unspoken I definitely feel, so I gave up on trips to Trader Joe’s and almost every late night event months back. In the last year the dogs and I have gone on less than 5 hikes, which was once a daily routine. Now our...