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9:14 p.m. - March 26, 2002
snowcovered
It's easier to think of images in short phrases, words that carry more than their weight in letters. The open road. Highway diners. Shifting gears. Stuffy hotel rooms. Rusty tollbooths. Blaring music. Heavy bass. Dirty feet. Roadside streams. Winding roads. Broken pole. You could put all of that together and get a more comprehensive 'road trip', but having written all of that, I'm tasting cola and have got a sudden thirst for adventure; unattached, spontaneous, wild adventure with someone I don't care about being at my worst in front of, or by myself, but by myself isn't nearly as much fun, and there's no one to say to, 'Look at that.' which is all anyone really says on road trips, anyway. I wish it weren't. And maybe it isn't, with people other than my parents (let's try to cram every possible tourist site in the state into three hours, it'll be fun). Hah. I want to notice the cows by the side of the road, and the cute boy behind the counter of the Quik-Stop, and the owls' noises at night, and how the place in Mississippi makes really good grits and has a sign on the wall saying you don't have to leave a tip, and what it feels like to sleep on a reclining car seat with a pillow, a blanket, and a moonroof. I don't care about the fucking World's Largest Snake Museum.
I really liked the log cabin restaurant up in the mountains of California, when it started snowing and within seconds our car was a pure white lump, and our vision was wet and blurry and sparkling and you went in and had hot chocolate and quesadillas; hot weather food and cold weather food, and when you looked out the window you couldn't see even halfway down the mountain where the valley exploded with pastels and fake tans and leftover 80's hairdos. The snow covered it all up.

 

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