I Didn’t Come Here to Suffer: The Tire Chronicles

Somewhere out there, a demon spawn was bored.

So they said:

“Let’s let the air out of her tire. Gently. Slowly. Just enough for confusion.”

And on a blessed Sunday—

when mechanics are scarce

and your patience is already down to fumes—

you step outside

and see it.

The tire.

Flatter than your last hope.

You pause.

Because surely this is fixable.

Surely this is a minor inconvenience

and not a prelude to whatever this day is about to become.

So you do what any rational person would do:

You hoof it—on foot, in summer morning heat—

to the nearest auto shop

to buy an inflator.

You are, after all, an adult.

You are capable.

You are trying not to cry in public.

You come back.

You plug it in.

You turn it on.

And the tire?

It just sits there like:

“Nah.”

And then you notice:

It’s smashed against a tree stump—

creased like a folded napkin—

and in your overheating brain you think:

“Maybe if I just move it three feet to level it, the air will finally go in.”

Three feet.

That’s all it took.

The tire said:

“I didn’t sign up for this life.”

“I didn’t come here to suffer ooooo!”

And removed itself—

fully, violently, with attitude—

from the rim.

No warning.

No loyalty.

Just POP

and drama.

---

So now you’re calling the tire man.

Again.

Pretending you didn’t already do this two months ago.

Pretending this isn’t the third emotional breakdown you’ve had in the privacy of your eyeballs.

You hand over the cash like it’s Monopoly money

and wander through the rest of the day trying not to stew in it all.

Trying not to let your literal flat tire become a metaphor for your entire existence.

---

And then Monday comes.

And you realize…

you might be skipping a meal or two.

Because that little Sunday semi-emergency?

That dramatic rubber rebellion?

Cost you groceries. 💸

---

At this point, you're not even mad.

You’re just narrating your life like a budget thriller.

“Tire refuses labor. Woman considers starvation. Film at 11.”

---

Some people’s rock bottoms are loud.

Yours came in the form of a sassy, Nigerian-accented tire

that rolled off the job with more dignity than most people you’ve dated.

And now you know:

Sometimes life flattens you.

Sometimes it’s the tire.

Either way—

you didn’t come here to suffer.

But apparently…

that message got lost somewhere between the inflator and the tree stump.

For the search bar warriors:

flat tire blog story, humorous car trouble, life unraveling over tire, poetic rant, roadside struggle, personal essay about breakdown, funny storytelling, everyday chaos, how to survive small disasters, I didn’t come here to suffer