Breaking Up With My Tesla: Like Dumping A Brilliant, Smug Partner
I waited in the driveway. Arms crossed. Coffee forgotten. The car just sat there. Silent. Fully charged. Looking superior. It didn’t need me. And I didn’t need it anymore. But saying goodbye? That’s harder than teaching quantum physics to a toddler.
Selling a Tesla isn’t like ditching a Honda that rattles at 60 mph. https://onlyusedtesla.com This thing saves your seat position. Predicts your habits. Silently shames your speed. It’s not a car. It’s a robotic partner with memory.
First move? Tesla’s official trade-in page. Felt straightforward. Sterile. Type in VIN, upload photos, wait for computer verdict. Got offer. Stared. Blinked. Checked my eyesight. Offer was worse than a Craigslist beater. And that thing requires prayer to start.
So I went rogue. Listed it on a random classifieds site from 2002. Buyers who argue about regen braking. One guy even tried to pay me in Bitcoin. Title: “Tesla Model 3 Performance – Fast, Clean, Slightly Addicted to Speed.” Added pictures. One of the car under rain. Looked dramatic. Or like it was thinking bad thoughts.
Messages flooded in.
“Can I test drive with my dog?”
“Does it come with free charging forever?” (Spoiler: no. Forever isn’t a thing anymore.)
“My psychic says it’s haunted by Elon’s ego. Should I sage it first?”
One guy drove two hours. Wore aviator shades indoors… during the test drive. Said he wanted to “concentrate on the vibes.” Drove half a mile. Nodded. Offered a ridiculous lowball. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas chasing too few dreamers.” Left without removing the headphones. Weird? Yes. But also surreal.
Then came Lina. Calm. No-nonsense. Brought her expert. Not a buddy with a wrench. A certified guy with scanners. They scanned the battery logs. Mumbled things like “Ah, 7.9% degradation… acceptable decay.” Felt like watching someone grade my diary.
We talked price. Civil. Like adults exist. She asked if I’d leave the floor mats. “They’re not mine,” I said. “They came with the car.” She smiled. “Exactly.”
Signed paperwork in a bubble tea shop. She paid on the spot. I revoked my phone key. Car beeped once. Cold. Silent. Like a robotic goodbye.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Chaotic. Full of humans. Miss the autopilot? Sometimes. Mostly miss the instant torque. And the fact that it never needed gas.
But hey—now I’ve got cash. Enough for a motorbike. Either works.
Turns out, selling a Tesla isn’t about money. It’s about admitting the future you bought doesn’t fit the life you’re living. And that’s okay. Some dreams are meant to be borrowed, not owned forever.