I didn’t think selling a Tesla would feel like breaking up with someone who still looks good in photos. But here we are. In the drizzle. Me holding a phone. The car staring back blankly.
It started with financial unease. Not moral guilt. Money guilt. onlyusedtesla.com Like when you realize your side project bleeds cash. Insurance spiked. Tires? Pricier than two weeks in Bali. And don’t get me started on that $1,200 body shop bill because some genius opened their door into mine at Whole Foods. “Sorry!” they yelled, already halfway to the kale. No insurance claim. Just a dented ego.
I love the tech. The silence. The way it gets smarter while I sleep. One night it just… leveled up. Added a surprise function. Felt like Christmas morning. But after three years, the magic dulled. Now it just feels like a very pricey iPad on wheels.
So I typed “sell my Tesla” into Google. Big mistake. First result? Tesla’s official portal. Filled it out. Took snaps. Waited. Got an offer. Snorted. Then checked my bank account. Then laughed like a maniac. They offered worse than a Craigslist van covered in band stickers. Seriously. I could’ve bought a van covered in band stickers for more.
Fine. DIY it is.
Listed it on Reddit. Threads where kilowatt-hours are debated like baseball stats. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Fast, Clean, Slightly Addicted to Autopilot.” Added pics. One of the dash. One of the car under rain. Looked cinematic. Or like it was about to confess secrets.
Messages poured in.
“Can I pay in Fortnite skins?”
“Does it come with Elon’s blessing?” (Spoiler: no. Forever died in 2021).
“My wife says it looks like a spaceship. Can we test drive during a thunderstorm?”
One guy showed up in Birkenstocks. Carried a laser thermometer. Checked the battery pack like he was ghostbusting. Said, “Thermal variance is acceptable.” Then offered pennies on the dollar. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas on the block.” Drove off in a hybrid. I felt mocked.
Then came Lina. Calm. Prepared. Brought her technician. Not a friend. A paid pro. He scanned everything. Nodded at the screen. “Battery health 91.4%. Good bones.” She asked if I’d ever tracked it. I hadn’t. Too scared. We negotiated. Reasonable. No drama. Signed papers in a café. She paid on the spot. I revoked my key fob. Car made a final tone. Final.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Loud. Messy. Full of strangers with smells. Miss the silence? Sometimes. Mostly miss the instant torque. And the fact that it never needed maintenance like a gas car.
But hey—now I’ve got cash. Enough for a scooter. Or vacation. Either works.