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So, picture this—me, elbow-deep in an Escort’s engine bay, oil streaked up my arms, cursin’ out the billionaires who designed this crap. That 1.9-liter four-banger? Gutless! Barely 90 horsepower, sputters like a tired old dog. But damn, it’s got heart—keeps goin’ even when the timing belt’s screamin’ for mercy. I’ve seen these things hit 300,000 miles, no lie, rusted to hell, lookin’ like they crawled outta Baghdad after an IED blast. “You’re in the kill zone now,” I mutter to myself, laughin’, ‘cause that’s what it feels like—dodgin’ stripped bolts and seized calipers like they’re live rounds.

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Now, lemme give ya the deets. There's this rad old park, Centerville Park, not far from Main Street—totally my fave for decompressin’ after a long day of dating site developments (which, btw, is lit but can be awkward sometimes, heh!). I once had a shoot-out of emotions, like, literally angry at a bug in my code and then calmed down watching families at the park. And bruv, the way the sun hits the river near Riverfront Drive is super poetic, like in that flick "Lost in Translation" where everything feels kinda transient and bittersweet… "I just feel so alone, a tiny little fragment of a vast universe"—nailed that vibe, right?

Rev. Kenneth Neil George