Let me say something wild: I bought my Tesla just to save money. Shocking, isn’t it? Nope, I didn’t buy it to hug trees or rescue melting glaciers. I was just tired of gas prices making me feel like I owned a private jet instead of a beat-up hatchback. Electric cars run on cheap electricity instead of overpriced dinosaur juice. Simple math. No drama is needed.

But now, driving a Tesla is like tiptoeing through a minefield in sandals. I just wanted a smooth, quiet ride, not to become the poster child for some billionaire’s midlife crisis.

The trouble started when Elon Musk got bored. He wasn’t happy just launching rockets or posting memes anymore. He decided to jump headfirst into politics—and landed right in Trump’s campaign wallet. Dropping $300 million (allegedly!) into politics isn’t just writing a big check. It’s more like declaring your team colors in a sports game nobody asked for. Suddenly, my Tesla isn’t just a car. It’s a walking, talking political bumper sticker, and I don’t even know what mine says.

Watching Musk team up with Trump is like watching a superhero crossover gone wrong. They’re not saving the world—they’re playing Monopoly and we’re all losing money. Musk gets favors and big contracts; Trump gets tech-world street cred. And me? I get awkward stares and maybe some creative spray paint artwork in a Walmart parking lot.

I used to love rolling into a charging station, feeling cool and futuristic. Now it feels like parking a giant neon sign screaming, “Ask me about my politics!” Don’t get me wrong—I doubt Elon wakes up thinking, “How can I ruin someone’s grocery shopping today?” But there I am, buying eggs, wondering if someone outside is keying my car out of anger, confusion, or just really bad aim.

At first, I brushed off news about Teslas getting vandalized in the U.S., like swatting away annoying flies. But then it happened right next door in Hamilton, and suddenly I panicked. What was once a badge of pride turned into an anxiety magnet. I didn’t sign up for this when I bought my shiny electric soap bar.

Now every time I park, it’s like spinning a wheel—will my car still be in mint condition, or will I find a nasty surprise? Daily errands feel like Russian roulette and trust me, that’s not the Tesla experience they promised in the showroom.

Look, I respect the planet. I recycle. I avoid microwaving plastic. But buying my Tesla wasn’t a love note to Mother Earth—it was a breakup text to gas stations. If I wanted politics in my life, I’d just buy a bumper sticker, not a $60,000 electric skateboard with doors.

So if you see me cruising around, please know: I’m not part of some tech-bro uprising. I’m just trying to get groceries without having to give a TED Talk explaining myself. I believe in efficiency, not emperors. I believe in charging cables, not chaos.

I bought a car, not a whole political movement.

And hey, if someone starts selling flameproof car covers that say, “Relax, I just wanted to save money,” please DM me the link.