Depth of relationship requires compromise of self: the continuing saga of Scarlet

About 2 months ago I bought a terrible, terrible vehicle named Scarlet. Being 65 years old, my Willys sports a comparatively space aged 1965 Mustang 289 V8. This Willys has character in spades; she's a mean spirited banshee who's currently aiming to consume my very soul. And I love her with all my strength.

As in any relationship, the excitement of initial contact has long since faded into the reality of unpleasant odors and morning crankiness. Scarlet is still beautiful, her voice has become even more enticing thanks to a missing muffler, and with new shoes (33" BFG MTs) alongside a fresh hat (Edelbrock 4 barrel) she is, if anything, perhaps even more becoming. But this allure is now tempered with the reality of living together; every nut and bolt rattles loose while cruising at freeway speed, the windshield frame bounces when driving at any speed over 35mph in a manner that suggests eventual decapitation, and premium fuel (required by the staggeringly overbuilt 289) flows freely to the ground when sitting at most any angle.

Through all of this, though, I'm committed to working it out. I've already given her shoes and hat, now it's time to knuckle down and get the brakes just right (probably a disc swap) and swap in some power steering.

I'm excited to see where we go next, Scarlet and I. Well, excited and wincing from the bug I just caught in my eye while driving down I405.