Here is my car, which is, among other things, a 2004 Honda Civic. His name is Spike.
My ridiculous car is evidence of one of the great truths of life. People aren't generally watching you. Nobody cares. Sure, there are certain things you can't do. But outside the hard limits of the Overton Window and indecent exposure laws, people usually aren't monitoring you closely enough to disapprove of your behavior for very long. So you might as well do what delights you while the blood is still dancing through your fragile veins. It turns out that if you have a phenomenally ugly car, nearly nobody will look at it.
My ridiculous car embodies the principle of illegibility. Nobody looking at my car can tell exactly what kind of person I am. There's an American flag on one side and a sticker of Queen Elizabeth on the other. Currently, on the rear glass, "Just Married" is written, but this doesn't look like the automobile of a married person. Because I don't fit into an obvious pattern, there's no obvious criteria with which to judge me. I am generally committed to this way of life. I try to not be a Thing, like a Tech Bro, or a Rationalist, or a member of the #Resistance. This way, I can't be attacked as an instance of a general phenomenon. If I start sounding too serious and professional on Twitter, I try to tweet something stupid that won’t be popular.
My ridiculous car is one less thing to worry about. In my early months of driving, I backed into a parked Porsche. Its owner was very nice, and only charged me a token amount for the damage I did to her car. The damage done to my car was invisible, because my car is almost entirely composed of damage. It used to belong to my wife, and a man who crashed into her offered to replace the hood, and he came back with the wrong hood, which she accepted out of kindness. For awhile, a bit of the cheap plastic rear fender was sticking out at a dramatic angle. I tried to keep it on with duct tape, but the tape kept falling off. Finally, I simply ripped that chunk of the fender off with my hands.
My ridiculous car is the very embodiment of Good Enough. Many things in your life probably don't need to be improved. Your wardrobe is Fine. Your low-effort exercise routine is Fine. Your diet is probably Okay. I'm in no hurry to improve my automotive situation. I'll drive this car until it fails to reliably achieve motion. As far as safety goes, it's a Honda Civic, which means it's immortal.
My ridiculous car buzzes loudly after I accidentally drove over a large rock in the desert. Worried that I'd done something significant, I took it to three mechanics. They all shrugged and told me that there was more or less nothing wrong with it. I no longer notice the buzz, and when I do, I like it. It's a pleasant, calming vibration.
My ridiculous car is flamboyantly ugly, which is a precious and rare quality in the urban environment. Most things in our environment are gently ugly, like the average condo building, or tastefully beautiful, like a living room you see in Kinfolk. Both settings are about optimization: the skyscraper is designed to be cheap and easy to build, and the Kinfolk spread is designed to create desire. Both are cowardly and monotonous, and compose an oligarchy of moods. The possibility spaces for both beauty and ugliness are larger than we imagine. My car floats in that empty space.
In many ways, my car is perfect. If somebody offered me a better car, I would take it immediately.