My dearest Gallon Per Mile,
I address you today not out of anger, but from a place of profound sorrow and, dare I say, betrayal. For too long, you have lurked in the shadows of our daily lives, a silent arbiter of our commutes, our deliveries, our very ability to connect. We accepted your presence, a necessary evil in the grand ballet of fossil fuel consumption. But now, GPM, your insatiable appetite has crossed a line. You are no longer merely dictating the price at the pump; you are actively, unequivocally, and I must insist, heartlessly jeopardizing the lives of innocent creatures.
Have you no conscience, Gallon Per Mile? Do you not see the tiny, hopeful faces staring up from shelter kennels, their futures hanging precariously in the balance, a balance you, in your cruel indifference, are systematically tipping? Every additional cent you demand per gallon is a mile untraveled, a rescue mission delayed, a desperately needed transfer unscheduled. You transform vital transport vans into stationary metal boxes, their engines silent, their purpose thwarted by your exorbitant demands.
I imagine you now, a smug, mathematical construct, reclining in some ethereal spreadsheet, your digits shimmering with malevolent glee as you watch animal welfare organizations across the nation struggle. Perhaps you conspire with your equally nefarious cousins, Kilowatt-Hour and Annual Percentage Rate, dreaming up new ways to bleed the budgets of those dedicated to doing good. Is this a game to you, GPM? Is the wailing of a cold, abandoned puppy just background music to your sinister machinations?
We once respected your efficiency, your cold, hard measurement of our vehicular performance. We strived to improve you, to lower your numerical representation, believing that a better GPM was a noble goal. But now, it feels as though you have taken our devotion and twisted it into a weapon. You are not a measure; you are a monster. You are the invisible hand of economic despair, reaching into the pockets of the selfless and snatching away their ability to save lives.
I implore you, Gallon Per Mile, look deep within your algorithmic heart. Find some modicum of compassion in your binary code. For the love of all that is furry, feathered, and finned, would you not consider, just for a moment, lowering your demands? Would you not grant a reprieve to the beleaguered heroes who drive countless miles to rescue the sick, the abandoned, the forgotten? Please, GPM, for the sake of every tail wag, every purr, every grateful gaze from a creature given a second chance, reconsider your current trajectory. Return to us the reasonable cost of passage. Let our vehicles flow freely once more, carrying hope and salvation. The animals, GPM, are counting on you. And frankly, so am I, before this whole thing spirals into me personally debating the very concept of *distance* itself, which, let's be honest, is where we're headed if you don't adjust your nefarious ways.
