I am not a lucky person. When I was little and played bingo, I lost so bad that I ended up giving prizes to the winner. Naturally, therefore, I have had some car issues, especially when on my way to Chipotle.

The first instance in which God decided to smite me with the unfairness of the road was about a year ago. After repeated signs to not drive my car, such as the check engine light turning on, and the question of “are you sure you want to drive?” Fate tempted my compatriot and me into the jaws of death.

I’d like to preface this with a brief summary of my car: it’s a semi reliable, meaning there is a seventy-five percent chance that you will not make it to your destination. It’s old, and by old I mean that when you describe it to your parents they will probably respond with “I had one of those in college,” or the more likely “didn’t they discontinue that model?” It has enough wooden paneling that you could take off the doors and have enough fuel to keep your house at a toasty seventy-two degrees all winter long. I give you the Jeep Grand Wagoneer, a car so forgotten that one of it’s most likable features is the shag carpeting.

It was a jovial drive, the wind was blowing on the windshield, the air conditioner wasn’t really working, and the airbags weren’t noticeably absent from the seven thousand pound tank we were riding in. We had pulled to a heavily trafficked intersection and were awaiting the green arrow to turn left. That’s when my lovely friend, Walter, looked over and said, mid laugh, “how funny would it be if your car stalled right here,” and the entire world held its breath. What followed was the sound of a sad elephant, a burst of smoke, and a stop in the music in the cassette player.

If looks could kill, my car would not be the only thing that died on that day.

Your car stalling is bad. Your car stalling in an intersection is worse. Your car stalling in an intersection when you don’t know where the hazard lights are and your only comrade has ditched you in an Uber car is much worse. Thanks Walt. Needless to say, I didn’t get my Chipotle, and although it’s been a year, my luck has still not improved.

The second, equally as heart breaking instance happened yesterday. I was on my way, once again, to the second most American-Mexican food restaurant around, Chipotle, and my car pulled a fast one on me. I was near the location where the fabled oasis of guacamole goodness resides, and my tire blew out. Not the kind of blow out that you can two-foot to an auto repair shop. The kind of blow out where you physically feel the whole car sigh as if to say, “darn.”

I found the spare, equipped my jack, and set to work with the hope of maybe reaching the Chipotle before its doors shut me out in the moderately warm March air. After two hours of work, I managed to get the spare on and learned that there was a tire shop located directly across the street. But it didn’t matter. I got in the car, I drove, (obeying all traffic laws), pulled into the parking lot, and watched a blissful Chipotle employee lock the door and turn out the light. That moment was the most alone I have ever felt. Even more alone than when Walt called his Uber and drove away. Thank you again Walter, you true blue friend.