For the last time, Jacksonville, it is not a vee-hickle.
IT IS A CAR.
A vee-hickle is the sort of thing that could be found around 1999 outside of that service station that sold the pig's feet and crawfish and employed the only man I've ever seen in real life wearing a straw hat and overalls without a shirt underneath. You know, it was the little shack just across the border of Brit Brit country where Mr. Exposed Nipples referred to us as You Yankees and I watched the hood of my car spit out smoke while the entire front became engulfed in flames and I thought to myself, Dear God, is this a message that I should have chosen a different University for that track scholarship? Because pickled pig's feet and nipples? That's just a lot to take.
And I'm not certain, but I think that God said, Yes, Kelly, and I'm sorry about your vee-hickle.
So I transferred. Because both God and I know it's a car.