There comes a time in everyone's life when they feel free and unburdened by responsibility. For American teenagers, it's when they receive their license (or permit, whichever). It's exciting being behind the wheel at first, but eventually the novelty wears off, right? Not in my case. I'm still as excited as I was when I was first handed my permit.

For some absurd reason, my uncle announced he would make me heiress of his yellow Volkswagen Beetle. After he finishes paying it off in about four years, he'll award me with it when I venture into college. He assured me he was serious, but knowing my uncle and his monetary troubles, I doubted I would have it in possession any time soon. Regardless, I asked my father if he'd teach me how to drive stick, as my uncle's Beetle wasn't automatic.

The only car we have that has stickshift (and isn't in the garage, awaiting new brake pads) was my father's Nissan Maxima from when he was in college. I have no clue how old it really is, but considering that my father's nearly forty and had it long before my older brother was born does nothing to reassure me of it's stability. Despite that fact, my father continues to keep it around for driving him to and from his workplace and works regularly to keep it in proper working condition.

So I was driving it around with the help of my father, and as I meandered onto the interstate, I looked at the speedometer and said, "Why am I going 125 mph?!"

Apparently there isn't a way to fix that ol' speed-o-meter, as I like to call it. That, or my father isn't bothered that he's doing 140 on a 45 mph road, according to the speedometer.