I don’t like the car I have. I don’t think I can sum up the theme of this column any better than that.

About four months ago I decided to move back to New York, which in turn meant I needed a set of wheels. I had managed to go the previous year-and-a-half without a vehicle, which saved me a monthly car payment, insurance and gas.

I lived where I worked and always had access to transportation when I needed it.

However, coming back home I knew I needed to find a vehicle fast and relatively on the cheap. I searched the internet and settled on a few choices, all of which were well within my price range.

But that’s where my first problem arose. I had enough to put a sizable down payment on the used vehicle I wanted. I didn’t want a huge loan to payoff and had no interest in something flashy that appeals more to materialism.

Unfortunately the banks I wanted to use wouldn’t offer small loans for older vehicles. I guess their logic is that if I stopped paying and they took it back, they’d want something of value to recoup their losses.

I had a few options — either buy the car outright or find a better vehicle that cost slightly more to get a loan. I couldn’t afford to put any more down, so in the end I had to purchase a more expensive vehicle in order to get the loan.

It’s the type of backwards thinking that can make you go crazy.

I chose a vehicle that seemed to have everything I needed and wasn’t too flashy. I can’t stand listening to FM radio and I have long given up trying to get WGR on the AM dial when I want to, so having the auxiliary input became far more important than it ever should be when buying a car.

I had only one day to buy the car; I had a flight the next day and I knew when I got back I wouldn’t have any time to go car shopping.

Long story short, I had to get this woefully average vehicle I hadn’t thoroughly reviewed ahead of time like I had done with my first choices.

Once I settled in my place right here in the city I was reminded just how uneven and rocky some of these local roads are. It seemed every pothole is located within a 5-mile radius of my domicile. And believe me, if there’s a hole in the ground to be found, my car has met it with fury.

Within a month of driving, the tire sensor went on, where it remains even today as a yellow glow on my dash each night driving home from work. I’ve check the tires checked for pressure several times over but can’t find the culprit. I have no intention of paying anyone just yet to have them looked at, and figure I’ll ride it out until the spring.

I try not to drive too much in the winter if I don’t have snow tires. This should help delay the fact that I’ll have to do something about it eventually.

I have no intention of keeping this vehicle any long than I have to. However, the first car I ever had I ran into the ground — that’s how much I enjoyed it.

The car was a blue 1996 Chevy Beretta. Paint was constantly chipping and the seats were never comfortable. But like many things, it was my first and so I loved her. I think I kept that car for six or seven years, and I’m surprised it even made it that long. I don’t recall how many miles were on her when I finally upgraded, but I never had any issues.

I’ve had a few vehicles since the Beretta but I don’t think any have come close to the bond I had with her — because everyone knows cars take on female personification.