Xanthus is my baby. He’s been with me for a year today, and he’s still just as adorable as when I first laid eyes on him. Maybe more so, as I had his original black rally stripes removed and replaced them with glittery blue ones.

I can’t help but smile whenever I open the garage door and see him sitting out there, waiting to roar to life with a simple twist of the ignition key. And when he roars to life, so do I. The pulse in my veins quickens, my breath becomes shallow and rapid, my heart starts pounding, and I long to step down hard on the gas pedal to see just how fast he can run.

But of course I don’t. I’m a responsible driver. Or so I’m tried to convince myself. I take great pride in completing this first year with my fourth mustang without receiving any speeding tickets in any of them. That fact alone confirms that I’ve mastered the use of the cruise control.

Yet it takes every bit of restraint I have to hold myself back when some dinky little Prius driver thinks she’s hot stuff by passing Xanthus and me.

Seriously? You don’t think we could take you like you were standing still and leave you miles behind if we had a mind to? Well, ok, we’ve a mind to—we just don’t do it. Must make you feel so big and powerful to wind up that sorry excuse for a car to coax it past me when I politely move to the right hand passing lane.

Just remember one thing, you pathetic Prius pansy-ass: I’m driving a mustang.

And you’re not.