It was time, dear reader. Time to give my loyal steed, Yuki, the care she deserved. An oil change. A simple task. Routine maintenance. A peaceful bonding moment between woman and machine. Or so I foolishly believed.

Now, let me begin by saying: I can change oil.

I know the steps.
I know the process.
I know what needs to happen.

What I apparently forgot… was how violently personal oil filters can become. The mission began smoothly enough. Yuki was positioned. Supplies gathered. Old clothes equipped because experience has taught me that motor oil does not simply touch you—it claims you spiritually.

The drain plug came off.
The old oil drained.
Confidence was high.

Too high.

Because then came the oil filter. That cursed little cylinder of rage. I tried by hand first, like an optimist. Nothing. I adjusted my grip. Again, nothing. I grabbed the oil filter wrench and twisted. Still nothing. I muttered encouraging words. Then less encouraging words. Then words that would make a sailor clutch their pearls. That filter was fused onto the engine block like it had signed a blood oath.

At one point I braced myself, twisted with the strength of an angry raccoon fighting for survival, and promptly slammed my finger into something metal. The pain was immediate. I stared at my throbbing finger in offended silence while the oil filter sat there smugly, unmoved and undefeated. But I am nothing if not stubborn. The battle continued.

Eventually, through determination, questionable language, and pure spite, the filter surrendered. Victory was within reach. Or so I thought. Because dear reader… Nobody warns you about the oil. Not properly. You think you’re prepared. You are not prepared. One wrong movement and suddenly I was reenacting scenes from Shakira’s La Tortura music video in my driveway.

There was slipping.
There was flailing.
There were dance moves no human should ever witness.

I was no longer a mechanic. I was a fish thrown onto land, flopping helplessly in a puddle of betrayal and 5W-30. Thank God I had changed into old clothes beforehand because motor oil has two defining characteristics:

1. It smells like regret.
2. It spreads faster than panic in a group chat.

Still…

Despite the chaos…
Despite the bruised finger…
Despite looking like I lost a wrestling match against an oil pan… I did it.

Yuki now has fresh oil.
A shiny new oil filter.
And another chance at life upon the open roads.

Meanwhile, I have:

• One injured finger
• A bruised ego
• Three new stains that may never come out
• And the overwhelming desire to shower for approximately six business days

The battlefield has been cleaned. The tools have been put away. And I now limp toward the bathroom smelling vaguely like an auto shop and poor decisions. But victory is victory, dear reader.

Messy?
Absolutely.

Graceful?
Not even remotely.

Successful?

Without question.

— Bella Imperia

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