The inside of your car

a reflection of character

“If I went on a date with a girl and her car was as messy as yours, I’d be OUT of there.”

“Well, lucky for you and I, we aren’t dating.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a reflection of character.”

“That is absurd, it isn’t. A reflection of character is you getting mad at me for not closing your car door with the palm of my hand to avoid finger prints.”

“What if a man just wants to take care of his car?”

“Your car tells me that you’re anal and attached to meaningless, external subtleties; my car says that I’m too busy enjoying life to give a fuck. Either way — we’re never dating.”

Above reads a near verbatim conversation between my father and I. Though the last line may have been slightly less eloquent and with one less F-word.

If a girl marries her father (as they say), she would also most certainly divorce him. At least in my case.

Perhaps Dad was onto something, however. Perhaps your vehicle says a lot more about you than you’d like to admit. Right now, mine says that I go through way too many plastic water bottles, that I had a parrot when I was 7 (as revealed by old photos scattered about the trunk) and moreover, that I really do live out of my car — shoes, bathing suits, a suitcase and half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey hinting at my lifestyle.

In the end, a vehicle is nothing more than a tool to help you reach where you want to be. Why not be ready for everything when you get there?

That’s my excuse for now, at least.