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I’m never going to wash my car again, and You can’t Make me

I washed my car on Sunday. It was 60°F (15.5°C) out. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day to get some fresh air and give my focus the bath it was desperately begging for. Only on the outside, though. It remains filthy and tainted with years of debris on the inside… just like its master.

Anyway. I obviously wasn’t the only person in the world that thought car-washing was a great idea for the first pretty day we’d had in months. I knew going into the experience that I was going to have to wait… and wait…. and wait…. and wait…. and wait…. and wait…. and wait…. ….. and…. you get the picture.

So, I picked the carwash place I did for 2 reasons: 1, it was the shortest line, and 2, it is close enough to Staples for me to pirate their wi-fi like it’s Ioz’s legendary Treasures of Rule.

This is not a rant about waiting in line to wash my car. I was cool. I had a game plan.

 

THIS, is about the fact that it is now Tuesday and my car is 100% covered in road scum again.

 

I mean, you can’t even read my license plate because it is completely mucked over…

 

THE BACK ONE!

 

So, I’m not doing it anymore. I didn’t go anywhere that should have been so scummy and nasty. I drove to freakin’ work.

 

Who cares if my car is a dirty, dirty auto? I don’t. I like it that way.

 

 

Although, I really should clean out the inside sometimes soon… there’s a funk-a-brewin’ in there, and I don’t know if there are any survivors.

Published by M.A. Brotherton

M.A. Brotherton is a writer, blogger, artist, and fat-kid from the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri. He’s tasted a little bit of everything the Midwest has to offer, ranging from meth-tweaking rednecks in massive underground cave complexes to those legendary amber waves of grain. When he’s not writing, he spends most of his time screwing around on the internet.