Michel-Ange is dead. As opposed to selling him, which had been my plan - my mother's friend Patti has a foster daughter who's 16 and could use an old car that's eminently wreckable - I was driving up from Indy to see my Angel and trafic on I-69 stopped. So I stopped. With my usual compulsiveness I stopped well back from the car ahead of me. The car behind me - I think - stopped. The car behind that was not paying attention, and I heard a squeal of brakes and looked back over my shoulder to see that slow-motion view that always comes when you have a split-second to do nothing but think oh, saints and angels... before there was a very loud bang, a very hard jolt, and the sound of shattering glass.
"Shit," I said to Angel, with whom I was speaking on the phone. "I gotta go." And I hung up.
He swerved around the car behind me, lost control, and slammed the front corner of his car into the flat plate that
When I go down to finish getting my stuff out, I'll try and take pictures for you, O Best Beloved. The car is totalled. And it's the other guy's fault, 100%. Claim is filed and the adjuster is going out to the tow yard to see the car, they'll get back to me Tuesday or Wednesday.
We're both fine, and his car is scuffed up a bit but not seriously damaged, somehow. And Angel came and got me, and the policeman gave me some teddy bears for having been hit and took me to the exit so I could camp out and wait for my ride. He was a very nice policeman.
So the problem of what to do with Michel-Ange is settled. I think my drag-queen car just really didn't want to leave me for some teenage girl, and formed a pact with another car to commit suicide. In a very tidy way.
More on the other good things that have happened later; I need to go do a little shopping for the new car - who has been named Shinichiro, Shin for short, Shinkun for when I'm feeling cute. I love this car.