Welcome to my Tuesday, children
Yeah, okay, so I'm here, closing in on 9:00 and it's been one more day of driving and driving and watching the cracks in my windshield getting longer and more erratic and I'm wondering just how long it's going to be before all the cracks get together and spiderweb the whole damned windshield and I can't resist the urge to put my fist into it, just so that I can think, in my latter years, "Yeah, when I was a kid I punched out the windshield of a blue Mercury station wagon."
And that'll be funny as all hell until I actually do it and misjudge either my punching strength or the remaining integrity of the windshield and end up with my fist dangling through a hole in the glass and little hacksaw, jigsaw bits of old windshield digging at the arteries and veins in my wrist and you just KNOW that this kind of shit'll happen on some fucking backroad and I'll have to drive 20 miles to find someone with a sawzall and some bandages and every bump I hit will make the glass dig deeper into my wrist and I'll be bleeding all over my dashboard and my $15 Eddy messenger polo and my fucking khakis and be cursing myself out for sheer stupidity but will still be checking it out 'cause, really, how often do you see something like that?
And even when it's all okay and I've gotten my wrist out of the windshield and the blood out of my shirt I'll still have a goddamned big hole in the windshield and I'll drive it around like that for months, telling myself that I don't have the bread to get a new one and every time it rains the windshield wipers will push all kinds of water onto the front seats and my legs so I'll end up driving around with a plastic tarp in my lap or some kind of nonsense, and when I get out to Seattle it'll, obviously, just get worse as the Emerald City pisses all over me and Jen'll say nothing but, "Well, I said you should just get a new windshield," and she'll be aggravatingly, utterly correct and that'll just make it worse, and convince me to try and find some other way around it, just so that she's not so utterly, smugly correct.
The Travel Channel is showing a show on the Top Ten Truck Stops in the world. They're showing it, and I'm watching it. There's a sickness here.
I need to go read about nutrition now.
Yeah, okay, so I'm here, closing in on 9:00 and it's been one more day of driving and driving and watching the cracks in my windshield getting longer and more erratic and I'm wondering just how long it's going to be before all the cracks get together and spiderweb the whole damned windshield and I can't resist the urge to put my fist into it, just so that I can think, in my latter years, "Yeah, when I was a kid I punched out the windshield of a blue Mercury station wagon."
And that'll be funny as all hell until I actually do it and misjudge either my punching strength or the remaining integrity of the windshield and end up with my fist dangling through a hole in the glass and little hacksaw, jigsaw bits of old windshield digging at the arteries and veins in my wrist and you just KNOW that this kind of shit'll happen on some fucking backroad and I'll have to drive 20 miles to find someone with a sawzall and some bandages and every bump I hit will make the glass dig deeper into my wrist and I'll be bleeding all over my dashboard and my $15 Eddy messenger polo and my fucking khakis and be cursing myself out for sheer stupidity but will still be checking it out 'cause, really, how often do you see something like that?
And even when it's all okay and I've gotten my wrist out of the windshield and the blood out of my shirt I'll still have a goddamned big hole in the windshield and I'll drive it around like that for months, telling myself that I don't have the bread to get a new one and every time it rains the windshield wipers will push all kinds of water onto the front seats and my legs so I'll end up driving around with a plastic tarp in my lap or some kind of nonsense, and when I get out to Seattle it'll, obviously, just get worse as the Emerald City pisses all over me and Jen'll say nothing but, "Well, I said you should just get a new windshield," and she'll be aggravatingly, utterly correct and that'll just make it worse, and convince me to try and find some other way around it, just so that she's not so utterly, smugly correct.
The Travel Channel is showing a show on the Top Ten Truck Stops in the world. They're showing it, and I'm watching it. There's a sickness here.
I need to go read about nutrition now.
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