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Bunmi Laditan

The state of my vehicle is a source of great shame for my family. While my husband's truck looks like it rolled off of the lot yesterday, mine appears to have hosted several Coachellas.

When we take my husband's vehicle somewhere, I feel like I'm sitting in First Class or on a private luxury jet. Everything is so clean and not sticky, there are no nests of grocery store receipts (that I might need one day) or beach towels and piles of too small children's clothes. His car doesn't contain totes upon totes of miscellaneous items ranging from Benadryl cream and tampons to Ziploc bags of crushed Ritz crackers, half-empty water bottles, and permission slips I never signed.

His car's interior carpet is almost immaculate. The black mats sparkle as they catch the light and if you were to brush your hands upon them you would be shocked by their luxurious softness.

When entering my car, the first thing you'll want to know is what that smell is. The answer is complicated: a blend of urine from accidents past and snacks that should have never happened. Oh and spilled milk. Lots of milk ripened by the summer sun. Also, it only takes one kid throwing up a year to give your car a scent that can only be described as vinegar mixed with grizzly bear taint.

When my husband enters my car, the look on his face says, "How is this possible?" I can tell he wants to wear gloves when driving my car, but knows I would find that offensive. I can feel his skin crawling as he drives, and while I sympathize, I've grown used to the debris.

Despite vacuuming my car every few months, a layer of crumbs and sand have become embedded into the carpet. The space between each seat is a gooey Pandora's box- a trash can mystery grab bag of accumulated domestic filth.

As I drove my kids around this morning, though, I had an epiphany.

If we were to have some kind of apocalypse, zombie or otherwise, it would be my type of car, not my husband's, that would be considered valuable.

While his car is a clean, calm oasis, mine is a SWISS ARMY KNIFE, MOTHER HUGGERS.

His might not smell like dolphin piss, but my car, MY CHARIOT, contains all of the items needed to survive the collapse of modern society.

In my car you can find over 25 band-aids (normally reserved for fake boo boos), a first aid kit, all five food groups including a hardened McDonald's hash brown that I'm pretty sure is trapped between the back seats, enough clothes to see my family through all seasons, water (important), scissors, batteries, more baby wipes than you can imagine, hand sanitizer, spoons- all the spoons, diapers that don't fit anyone, bills (we can use these to stoke the campfire), the list goes on and on.

My husband's spotless vehicle would be useless once the undead declare war on the living. Mine would be an invaluable source of sustenance. My garbage can on wheels would save our babies' lives.

Just the cheerios on the floor alone would be a priceless source of trading currency.

If you, like me, drive a dumpster-mobile, don't let anyone bring you down because during the End Times we're going to be the real heroes.

Yes, I said it: HEROES.

No go forth and take pride in your motorized biohazard. You're a true soldier. A warrior. A legend.

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