Carrie, the demon car on Ivanhoe st

I'm guessing if my car could talk to me it would say:

"Listen, while I enjoy all the spilled popcorn your kids grind into my carpet and how you insist on leaving 2 liters of diet coke in the back to just roll around and hit the sides of me as you take corners at what feels like 70 miles per hour, here's the deal lady.  You make me really stabby.  So now I am refusing to get cool, like at all, and oh that "surging" thing you hate so much.  Yeah, that's going to be a big problem.  As in the transmission.  So good luck with that.  Also I hate you." 

My car is really grouchy. 

When I took it to the mechanic to get the air conditioning looked at because we live in Phoenix and news flash, it gets kinda hot here in the summer so I need a/c, our conversation was unfortunately typical:

Guy: So tell me about the problem.

Me: Well, the a/c won't get cool at all, among other things.

Guy: Other things?

Me: Yeah, I mean, you know like car stuff...

Guy: Like?

Me: Well, it does this like, stalling thing.

Guy: Explain.

Me: Well, if I idle at all it then decides it doesn't want to really go when I step on the gas, or like it's thinking about it first.

Guy: I think we need to look at that before the a/c.

Me: But it's hot?

Guy: ....

Me: This is going to be stupid expensive isn't it?

And as if I had some sort of mechanical car sixth sense he called me later to tell me it would be a mere $6,000. 

I'm going to name my car Carrie as in she wants to kill me by taking all my money and not allowing us or my children to eat and then become homeless people living on the street with empty bread bags on our feet just shuffling along saying "I only need this ashtray and this lamp and this one left shoe." 

Or we're going to trade it in.  We haven't decided yet.