Why I talk to inanimate objects, and other strange ticks

My car is temperamental. She has mood swings that only I can seem to match. When she's not almost breaking my extremities with her doors she's refusing to let me in.
The only thing more frustrating than a car with the attitude of an angsty teen is when your freshman sister is inside while you are outside in below freezing weather scraping off ice. It is my expert opinion that all freshmen should take the bus. It builds character.
When they do not take the bus they start to think it is their god-given right not to freeze their little size 00 butts off waiting until the bus decides to show up. They think that they deserve to arrive home promptly and not wait 40 minutes surrounded by screaming idiots. Buses build tolerance. Buses build fortitude. Buses keep them out of my car.
This morning my car was a full swing set, as usual, the works: not opening, music blasting much higher than I set it, and not heating... at all. After finally coxing the doors open and turning down the blasting Christmas music I gave the sister simple instruction: Turn on my iPod, the song I want is set, just plug it in...Please.
Getting out the tiny window scraper I started my feeble attempt to get the majority of the ice off the windshield, or at least enough so I could see. I am not a physically strong girl. The heaviest things I carry are books, big books but books none the less. Sometimes I'll jog, but that doesn't do much for the arms. So, needless to say I'm not much of a scraper.
I feverantly work my punie arms trying my best to get myself out of the cold then out of nowhere the windshield wipers start, fast. After scaring me and hitting my hand, which was not fun, I slammed my palm into the windshield and screamed "Haley! NO!" pointing at her through the frosty glass. "NO!"
Yanking open the door she looks up at me in a state of shock and what could have been fear, but she probably had not seen me jump from 0 to 10 on the crazy sister scale. "I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" she asserts moving her hands away from the control (which turns on the windshield wipers).
"Are you saying they turned on by themselves?" Seeing she had no answer I reach in turn off the wipers and finish what I can of the scraping.
Settling into my cold seat, still fuming and cold but now with a throbbing hand from where I smashed it out of spontaneous rage I blast the stereo trying to drown out my feelings with a fast beat and slightly obscene lyrics. That was not what waited for me. She changed it to the Plain White Ts.
Driving to school I had calmed down a little but it takes me a while. Tomorrow, she scrapes off the ice.
The truth is: Getting angry not only solves nothing but usually leaves not only those around you hurt, but you usually end up injured some way as well.