You are special. No, you are. I mean it; you definitely stand out. Most people who start a car, truck, boat, motorcycle, scooters, or other engine-equipped machine tend to slide a key into an ignition, twist it once, carefully depress the accelerator, and then move on. (Maybe they’ll turn the key twice, if the motor doesn’t fire immediately.) Those people are lame, man, they’re fucking ghosts. They’re barely even alive. When they drain their wine glasses and leave the party, nobody even notices or cares.
But not you, bro. When you split the scene, everybody knows, because you make a point of stomping the pedal through the floor and into the sewer. There’s nothing unique about owning or leasing an engine; millions of people have engines, but very few of them are capable of exercising those engines like you do. You do not exit a parking lot; you peel out of the parking lot, engine pumping furiously, burning tire rubber singeing the asphalt. At the light, you stoke the furnace even further, flashing teeth at the losers queued up on the corner, cranking up the Drowning Pool.
Then you’re gone, DeLorean-DMC-12-in-Back to the Future style, in a cloud of exhaust and lame metal. Or are you? Fuck no, you’re not, because you—Mr. Special—laughed madly, hooked a hard left just before the bridge out of town, tore through the side streets, just to re-traumatize and metaphorically re-wave your big, stainless steel dick in the faces of everyone who’d just managed to forget or shrug off your initial, idiotic display of uber-masculinity.