Only once did I really think that I needed a car. It was back in 85, or maybe 86. Since I didn't know anything about engines, a friend of mine, a garage mechanic, took me to a second-hand seller to help me choose. After much looking around, I decided on a big red mercedes diesel (big in size, not power). Driving home, my friend gave me a strange lecture about what it ment to be a mercedes driver, how it would separate me from the rest of the flock, how the possession of something valued as the best would make people envious, but also litterally make me better. We were not even twenty-five. It turned out the car had a hidden problem and didn't last a year. As for my friend, he went on to become very successful in his field (not mechanics anymore...), so successful you probably have heard of the things he does.
Me? I believe now the real reason I bought that car was that the lock of its trunk was broken and wouldn't open. The owner explained he couldn't remember what was inside.
I don't either, but how we opened it, and the following disappointment, yes, I do.
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