I have an embarrassing confession to make: I used to treat my car like a trash can.
Whatever I could crumple and throw into the front passenger footwell of my battered, clanking Subaru Crosstrek, I would. Crinkled receipts, balled up fast-food wrappers, empty plastic coffee cups, even used tissues—my car was extremely gross, but I just couldn’t be bothered to put in the effort I assumed it would take to keep my car clean. (Especially since that car, with over 150,000 miles and a check-engine light that seemed to always be on, made me a regular at the mechanic’s.)
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