From the seller:
Like many boys, my pre-pubescent years were occupied watching Paul Walker race Vin Diesel in the Fast and Furious movies and playing Need for Speed Underground on the PlayStation 2. Naturally, when I got my own ride at sixteen, I dabbled in the midnight racing scene. I'll never forget Christmas my sophomore year of high school when my parents gave me a multicolor underglow kit. I worked as a lifeguard at the local YMCA, and there was no disputing my level of badassery when I'd walk out the door at the end of a long shift and turn on my neon from across the parking lot via remote. That underglow even flashed in sync with the drops of my 14' Rockford subwoofer. Utterly sick.
I was quite the stud throughout high school--just douchey enough to piss off the nerds but enough of a sweetheart that girls fawned over me. When I'd meet girls at parties, I'd often drop a sentence or two about street racing in there. If they were lucky enough to score a first date, one of my favorite places to take them after dinner was our local car meetup and racing straightaway. It was situated right between two counties, so the nearest cops with legal jurisdiction were half an hour away--and that's if they were in a hurry. That street was perfect. It was nearly three-quarters of a mile long, one end blackened by all the hot rubber.
I didn't take a car my first year of college. Pledges weren't allowed to own them. That was a fun year. I met lots of beautiful women and made so many friends. A lot of it seemed almost meaningless though. I worked at a camp the summer following my freshman year. It was a real rustic place: no cell service, satellite TV, or vehicles. That's where I met Cheyenne.
Our first conversation went a lot like those back at the Sigma Chi house. Topics ranged from hobbies to after-school activities to my penchant for street racing. Cheyenne was a nursing student at Johns Hopkins. She was really going places. She had this adorable laugh; when she smiled, her nose would make the slightest crinkle. None of the sorority girls mattered. I knew she was it--she was the one for me.
We had an amazing summer together, and we agreed to date through the year to follow. It was a warm August night the first Friday back at school. We'd been texting all day, and I had planned a splendid sunset picnic for Cheyenne and I to enjoy. I walked to the front door of her sorority house two minutes early. I was greeted with a kiss by the most beautiful girl in the world. Cheyenne was perfect. Her hair was perfect. Her sundress was perfect. And I had the perfect night planned for us. With the most stupid smile in the world plastered across my face, we walked to the street.
I opened the passenger door of my '04 Civic Coupe and turned to look at her. She was gone. Cheyenne was gone. I was confused and devastated. I must have called her thirty times that night. What had I done wrong? What was missing in the relationship?
I reached out to her parents. They told me they weren't sure what happened but they would talk to her.
She texted me a couple days later: "I thought you drove an STI."
I bought this car back in June, and she's served me well. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to deal with the hiccups (more on that later). This is a stock 2009 Subaru Impreza WRX STI with 72,XXX miles. She drives like an absolute dream. I've never once worried about losing traction or tire slip. This car's AWD system is incredible.
- Brand new BF Goodrich COMP-2 A/S tires
- Invidia Turbo-back exhaust
- Low Milage -- these cars are nearly impossible to find with less than 100k miles on them
- Clean interior. The interior is in fantastic shape. I'll post pictures at a later time.
- Brand new carbon ceramic pads and slotted rotors. Yeah, they scream a bit when they're cold.
- The timing is a bit iffy. Either needs an ECU reflash or timing adjustment. Drive alright but idles a little rough.
- Turbo seal oil leak
- Valve cover oil leak
- Very slight rack and pinion power steering leak
- Slight body damage on the passenger rear door. It's not very noticeable but figured I'd point it out.
I hate that I have to sell this beauty. Just like the most perfect, well-mannered woman, this car has few flaws. I really just don't have the time, energy, or resources to fix the deficiencies. Email me if you have an offer; I know what the car's worth, so don't lowball me. The only thing I'd be interested in trading for is an R-Spec Genesis Coupe 3.8.
Lastly, the story was not my brainchild. I originally saw a similar narrative in the for sale ad of a skydiving canopy.
See a better soap opera sales advert? email@example.com