If you took one look inside my black Kia Optima, you’d probably assume I’m living out of it—or maybe that I’ve given up on life altogether. Honestly, you wouldn’t be wrong. My car is an absolute disaster zone, and if I’m being real, it’s always been that way. I’ve been a slob for as long as I can remember.
Growing up, I never cleaned my room, never did my laundry, never picked up after myself, and sure as hell never washed a dish. Why would I? My mom did everything for me. I guess you could say she spoiled me—and maybe that’s why I’m like this. It’s her fault I can’t keep anything clean, right? Even now, back at home, she still does my laundry and cooks for me. Some things never change.
But let’s talk about the car—because, honestly, it’s a story on its own. My old vending partners in Arizona knew how bad it was. Every time I pulled up to collect cash payments or meet a new potential victim—I mean, business partner—my car was piled high with junk. We’re talking soda cans, fast-food wrappers, snack bags, dirty clothes, empty bottles, and, yes… crusty man thongs (don’t ask). I’d even find meth pipes tucked in random corners sometimes. I know they wondered what the hell was going on with me—why my car was so filthy and why I never seemed to care.
I bought this black Kia Optima from a shady auto auction in Phoenix, Arizona, through a sketchy mechanic I thought I could trust. We tried doing business together—I thought it was a good deal—but in the end, I lost money. I bought four cars with him, but looking back, I’m pretty sure he scammed me. This Kia? Only cost me $3,000—which probably should’ve been a red flag. But after my blue Chevy Cruze’s engine exploded from all the driving I did, I was desperate for a new ride.
I never even bothered to change the Florida plates after moving to Arizona. I spent almost a year there, driving hundreds of miles a day. I had to. I was running all over Phoenix, visiting vending locations, collecting cash payments, and constantly on the lookout for new people to exploit through Facebook Marketplace. Every time I picked up cash from my partners, I’d secretly gamble it away later that night on Bookmaker.com. I made sure to be extra accommodating, always willing to drive as far as needed—because I knew that money would fuel my next big bet.
The thrill of it all was intoxicating. Lying to my business partners, keeping up with the facade—it felt like a game. I wanted to see how long I could keep the scam going before it all collapsed. I wasn’t just gambling with money—I was gambling with my entire life. I convinced myself it was all temporary—that if I could win big, I’d finally be able to live my dream life in Tampa.
But beneath the adrenaline rush, I was deeply depressed. Phoenix wasn’t giving me the life I wanted. Sure, stealing and gambling gave me a sense of purpose (as twisted as that sounds), but I was lonely. My ultimate goal was to find a boyfriend—but after months of trying, I had no luck. Maybe it was the way I looked, or maybe—let’s be honest—it was my disgusting car.
When I picked guys up for dates, they always had something to say about the mess or the overwhelming stench of old fast food. I don’t blame them—I wouldn’t want to sit in my own car either. But the Kia was all I had, and no amount of air fresheners could hide the truth.
Now, back in Tampa, the Kia is more of a burden than anything else. I can’t insure or register it, and the paperwork from the auction? Never showed up. I’m pretty sure that mechanic knew something was up—no wonder he let it go for $3,000. I’m stuck with this rolling dumpster that I can’t even make legal.
I should’ve known better, but that’s kind of the story of my life—risky decisions, messy outcomes. I hate this car, and yet, it’s been a reflection of who I am: chaotic, disorganized, and carrying a lot of baggage.
At some point, I’ll have to get rid of it—just like I’ve had to let go of so many other things. But for now, it sits outside, a filthy reminder of the mess I made in Phoenix and the wreckage I’m still trying to clean up.
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