I'm gonna let you in on a little secret: I met my best friend in 1997, and we were inseparable for nearly eight years until her sudden and untimely death in 2005. We took countless road trips together, from the Bay Bridge to Beverly Hills, Los Angeles to Las Vegas. She kept me warm on the odd nights out, and stayed with me when I had nowhere else to go or was too drunk to drive home. On our last night together, she was struck in a senseless car accident and died that same night. But before she did, she wheezed and sputtered and took me home with her last breaths. She collapsed in exhaustion a stone's throw from my front door. I cried when she was taken away, and pronounced that I would never love another the way I did her.

Nearly 3 years later, I still have the fondest memories of my Acura Integra, in spite of the fact that she was as mechanically exciting as a toaster oven. But I loved her, and she had a soul as real as my own. The day the insurance company declared her a total loss, I swear to you my heart stopped. The afternoon I had to sign her off to the wrecking yard and collect my belongings was a dark, rainy day. I have witnesses; I cried my eyes out.

Years later, I would barrel my inanely ugly (but oh-so fun) 240SX coupe along a deserted highway in the middle of the night, slip a tire or two, and play human foosball down the interchange. I climbed out of the wreckage, shaken to my core. But did I cry? Not a tear. Actually, check that – I did cry, but probably because I felt like such a complete idiot.

People often talk about the soul of a car, and the need for a driver to develop mechanical sympathy so they can "feel" if the car is having problems without even going under the hood or crawling under the car. Car companies inject their ad campaigns with promises of driving sporty cars with the soul of a motorsports champion. The greatest sports cars in history are reputed to deliver an almost tangible electricity between man and machine the instant the driver touches the steering wheel.

If it is true that all cars have a personality - some hot tempered, some boring, some real ball busters - then is it also true that cars have souls? Why do we connect with these very expensive machines when many of them are no different than kitchen appliances? Why would I cry about losing a car when there are so many better options to choose from?

Humans develop strange attachments to their possessions. Lucky charms come in the form of rabbits' feet, rosaries, and five-dollar bills. Everyone has a worn pair of pants they simply can't give to Goodwill, or the decrepit T-shirt that isn't quite awful enough to throw away, or the picture frame that may or may not be re-gifted next Christmas. Women understand this concept better than anyone, with all the practice they have saving dried roses, movie ticket stubs and miscellaneous relationship memorabilia over the years. What does an old ticket stub from one baseball game out of 162 in a season mean to a girl? It's not the piece of paper, or the fact that the home team lost 9-2; that day meant something much more.

I now own a 240SX (S13 conversion), a Mazda RX-7 (FC3S) and a Porsche 968. There is no question that each of these cars is in many ways mechanically superior to my Integra. It does not take an engineer or even a real enthusiast to point out the reasons why. But there are only so many cars that will see you through the most influential years of your life, and stand by you while only asking for an oil change and an occasional car wash in return. There is a difference between owning a car for seven years, and driving a car you truly love for seven years. A different person might have cursed the Integra for not being able to hoof it past the finish line; I cried because my car stayed faithful to me and got me home safely one last time.

I advise you to go home, get in the car, and give a silent blessing to the one who will love you back the most, no matter how hard you flog her or how many times she kept you up at night. There may never be another one like her.