You buy a car—and instantly become the “Hamster of the Entire Neighborhood,” the main character of the reality show “Duremar and His New Life.”
You snap your steel horse, toss it into stories, caption it “starting a new life,” and genuinely imagine the Universe is done messing with you.
But for now the car is playing the role of the perfect son-in-law: doesn’t fart, doesn’t blink, doesn’t ask why you still haven’t paid off the loan and what it’s like to be just a human.

A week passes. Then another. Then there you are at the gas station, staring at the display like it’s futures quotes on an exchange. Every digit in the price per liter is like a slap from an ex. You don’t fill up “to full,” you fill up “to not cry.”

And then comes the first ding: “Am I even an adult?
Why am I paying so my car can keep pretending to be a car?”
The main trick is that you’re not paying for “woooah, awesome,” you’re paying for the absence of extreme sports.
For silence.
For nothing to happen.
Just like a streaming service where you run a black screen for a year and at the end: “Thanks for not blowing up.”

Next— the service station.
That very “just change the oil”—carve it into a black altar at the entrance.
Because the service station is a dream-disposal factory!
You hand over the keys, drink their boring coffee, scroll memes, and then the mechanic comes out.
A sphinx face, a surgeon’s voice: “I have two pieces of news…”
He takes his time. “Well, it’s just little stuff…”
At this moment the universe falls into a black hole.
“Bushings, pads, something’s leaking and there’s a sound like ‘aaaaa,’ not sure what, but better not wait.”
You nod like you get it, and mentally kiss your vacation goodbye.

The most disgusting thing isn’t the price tag, it’s the timing.
Repairs don’t show up when you’re king of the world—they show up like the tax office: the week before vacation, before Lviv, before New Year’s, or right after the mortgage, the dentist, and the internet bills.
A psychic car that nails your most vulnerable moment to switch on “I’m a vibrator” mode.

Next—insurance.
The basic one—you pay and feel like a refrigerator.
The optional one—you pay so you can sleep without nightmares about the price of a fender, a headlight, and “geometry is out.”
Insurance is financial yoga: you pay so nothing happens, and if it does happen—so you don’t die from the expenses. Well then… meditate on that.

Then come the “little things.”
Tires, tire service, balancing, car wash (it’s embarrassing!), wipers-turned-into-gothic-art, a bulb, parking, a fine (“I was just for a minute!”). A bit here, a bit there…
And then—bam—and your life is an Excel sheet for suffering.
You add it all up by line item: fuel, repairs, insurance, fines, this “crap.” You look at the total and realize: you’re not an owner, you’re an investor—just without profit and with a victim complex.

And then a kamikaze thought creeps up: “Maybe I don’t need a car at all?”
Not in the sense of “I hate cars,” but in the sense of “I want the feature, just not this eternal subscription to pain.”
Because if the car sometimes sits, if you don’t want to think “what’s that new sound,” owning it is like buying a treadmill to dry socks on it.
Sometimes it’s easier to rent: for the weekend, for “need to go,” for the episode “I’m an adult, but not an idiot.”
Rental isn’t “for bums,” it’s a way to live without a subscription to tragedy, repairs, and tantrums.

If you’re reading this right now and nodding, check CAR2DRIVE: https://car2drive.ua
It’s like a car, just without a mechanic with a “just little stuff” face and without karmic light bulbs.

Bottom line: a car in Ukraine is fun—until you imagine it costs only on the day you buy it.
If you treat it like a lifetime subscription with a “surprise!” bonus—you’ll sleep better.
And if you’re hoping “how much can it really cost,” life itself will set you up with a financial literacy quest.
At the service station. No discounts. On the most inconvenient day of the week.

Selling a kidney for gas: the real cost of car life in Ukraine