Due to a series of stupid errors, which I may or may not blog about later, I found myself this afternoon slogging through the desolate wasteland of the self-serve wrecking yard. Anyone who’s owned an old Japanese car has probably found him or herself in a similar state, driving 20 minutes to the part of town where no one would ever think of building a town house complex, not even during the biggest of bubbles, and actually paying good money for the pleasure of trudging through a barren, hot and dirty lot filled with things that normal people generally try to avoid.
Broken glass, pointy bits of bent metal, vast smears of black sludge, it’s all here. And all you have to do is wade through it, armed with a bag of wrenches and a tetanus shot, to find the elusive part that you either bone-headedly broke or was already missing when you fell in love with the car and bought it against your better judgement.
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