Page 1: Intro, Me & My Probe

Page 2: Tuning Shows

Page 3: Body Kit Work (Millenium Wide)

Page 4: Paint (Custom Pink Pearl)

Page 5: Exhaust Sistem (Custom, made by me)

Page 6: Parts I Instaled

Page 7: From Love 4 my Car!!!

Page 8: My Original Ford Probe

Page 9: Why do I love my car? 

What is the most perfect coffee ever? The one that you buy from an OMV gas station situated about 60 km from the daring city where you live. Everybody who finds out about my tastes does two dumb gestures, but extremely expressive: rub their thumb against the forefinger and his neighbor - sign that money is wasted; then they raise the right hand to the temple and whisk the hand in the rhythm of the hurry-scurry thoughts which are teeming in my head.

But to hell with this. I know very well what and how. This is what I like: Get into my car and go. Put the appropriate music, at the proper sound level and go. That`s why I love my car. Because it does not make stupid remarks. It does not object. It does not care where we go and why. It is obedient and minds its own business.

I think I`ve already said this, but the seatbelt is the only one that holds me tightly in its arms, constantly. The steering wheel is the only one that I can touch with two fingers, with the palm, or with both hands, sometimes supported by it, to warm me to those two air nozzles located by both sides of it. The gear shift is the only phallic representation that one can touch and handle as  frequent as one wishes or as rarely as one desires. It enters the precise speed in a cadency that I already know very well. When not, it`s like when you make love with half of your mind lost somewhere, not even thinking to someone else, but, simply, just contemplating.

I know its sounds - I have a very good and sharp ear. I recognize all of its sounds – like when you  are sitting with your head resting on one's chest and you hear the heart, blood, breath, plus a lot of other big things, which I cannot define exactly, because I wasn`t witness at any dissection, but I do recognize them to be vital internal organs. So does happen with my car. I know the engine, I know how it croaks when I am not careful and I don`t put it into the right gear, I know what sound make the winter tires or the summer ones on the asphalt, I hear the fuel pump waking up when I twist the key in the ignition, without starting the engine. The rest - all other sounds I perceive them as being its inner life, that I strive myself to make as enjoyable as possible.

On the other hand, my car does know all of my sounds, too. And this is even more important than those that I perceive. It knows how I sing. Because that is what I do – I sing. I turn the music on loud enough not to hear myself, because I am aware of how my voice sounds and I don`t want to censor myself. My car knows how I cry – as has happened not so long ago when I got out of the house like a bat out of hell, at 11 at night, because my bed and the house gave me the impression of claustrophobia. And I got into my car and drove howling like a rabid dog, like a person suffering of cancer in metastasis, wailing horribly, long and modulating, that my heart was breaking on hearing myself. But I unburdened my soul, even if this exorcism took me about 100 km.

I love my car because it dresses me. I have hand cream, wet paper towels for me, for her - two types, one for the windscreen, one for other areas, I have a roll of plastic bags, which are my trash bag. I have juice, cigarettes, lighter, lipstick. I have my sport backpack, from which, if I need, I can pull out a flannel. I have radio, CD player, DVD player, fm modulator, and a lot of music. It's my personal walking space. I close the doors, turn on the music and all that makes out its way from my existence is the sound of the bass that makes the doors of the car and the rear mirror vibrate. I close myself in there and I live with the affectionate feeling that nothing can touch me. Not even the looks that, however, are able to see inside my car through the clean glass of the windscreen and windows.

I love my car as it strives hard. She is not a fast- speed car, with its only 116 horsepower (stock) and a mass slightly too big for this power, but she is lavish and does its best. I feel it spinning happily, every early morning, when I “swing” her on the curves that ascend to among lakes, and we go together to catch the sunrise in the mountains that are covered with the first snow. Saturday morning, when all ordinary people are sleeping, we drink “our” coffee and smoke “our” cigarettes at about 40 km from the city.

My car is my alcohol- my drug. I go driving and I forget everything. But everything. Or, I do not forget anything at all. But everything goes on a second plan.

At the end of the day, after I finished delivering all the things and everyone where they had to go, is my supreme pleasure to go into a gas station to get a coffee or a soda and put a cigarette while driving. With the left window open - even on frostiness, with the ventilator switched on at maximum, with the music playing in my head and with the bottle of juice between my legs, I gracefully shift the gears and I follow the laziest drivers in the traffic, simply because I`m not rushing anywhere. There are moments when I feel like going as far as possible, just cruising, just to dance according to the songs, to think in slow motion and pant.

All the love is consumed only between me and my car. Because the best moments in the car are those when I am alone. Even when I drive just to try to leave me behind, in the city from which I depart with the maximum speed that is permitted. Especially then. Although these self developing journeys clear my mind like nothing else, although I could turn my soul inside out like a glove to be looked at in detail, without any doubt. Although I wish very much that someone stays in my right, someone who doesn`t say give the music down - what the hell, you're deaf, is on level 14 of 20, damn it - someone that hums the same words and same musical tones with me. I haven 't found anyone to do this, yet.

My car is not equipped. Only air conditioning. What I want very much is a miraculous cable with the appropriate plugs, through which I can connect my mind to the speakers, to hear in my right everything that I wouldn`t have to put into words.

Does anyone know how to resolve this one?