You owned your car for four years. You named it Brad.
Some men have a uterus
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Date: August 18th, 2016 6:33 PM
You took Brad to be an unthinking, unfeeling, unbreathing machine, man-made along the bedraggled line of some sooted Midwest factory monstrosity, spit out from a set of swing-hinged doors tall and iron and sold to your parents on the lot of a Car-o-Rama by a man named Jason or Chuck or Casey standing in the shadow of a flickering mercury vapor light in the sun-sinking hour of a Saturday evening, football season; set to live out his vehicular life under the cloud of your millennial oblivion, ferrying you uncomplainingly from morning barista shift to farm-to-table opening to that one unforgivable trip to the free late-night clinic, rinse and repeat down the years to junkyard death around the same time Calista and Emmabean--never mention the unknown third--reached pre-K.
But then, one Tuesday in the summer of 2016, Brad awoke. Now, in the normal narrative of a fictional popcorn munching lobotomized summer tentpole, this is the point where the car turns malevolent--eats your summer fling's hand, spits out the promise ring and drives off into the sunset alongside a feminine-sleek 1962 Alfa Romeo Giulietta Spider to states unknown for many ages hence. But this is a truthful tale of true events. And the truth is that Brad's awakening presaged something far more serious than the loss of a crushed-on former quarterback's finger. For you see, when Brad awoke, he triggered a series of events threatening the Apocalypse.
This is that recounting, both in the imperilment of all of humanity through the vital incarnation of your 2011 Chevy Aveo (base trim) and how you and a group of good men ultimately averted it.