Dust rained down over me.
My little rocket ship rumbled quietly in the desert sand of the Sans Joking River Valley, where Fuckno, Califuckthisshit slowly crept northward into more farmland to steal from the production of food, leaving a trail of slime and waste in its wake.
Give it a wake, give it a funeral. It was time to get the fuck out.
I opened my car door in the early night, and stepped out to survey the damage.
No one was there. I had ended up swirling and skidding into a desert sand dune bass-ackwards in my panic, when I’d sure as shit seen Lorelei standing in my way in the middle of the road.
Her wheels were dug in pretty deep, buried in dirt. It took some scooping by hand to make a path for her treads, and this was much easier and warmer than in snow in a north-eastern land, far away, where I wanted to go.
What the fuck was happening to me?
Seeing ghosts and crashing my Celica while I was running away from a bad situation, man, that chust did not add up. I didn’t think that I was going crazy or anything, but then again, that is what any crazy fool will tell himself or anyone within earshot.
I rocked her back and forth with her easy stick shift like a good driver, and when it felt right, I chugged her forward. She made it up over the hump, and we were on the road again like we had planned it that way all along.
Evidently, I had driven out into the offskirts of Clovis in my blind fear, my escape mode. And now I had to figure out which way was home. Luckily, none of the drivers I’d pissed off driving through red lights moments before had followed me with road rage.
Cursive writing in black rubber scrawled my panicked path upon the sun bleached tar, in the twilight of that late fall night. I could see from which direction I had come, and I wanted to avoid those whom I’d caused to panic as well. I went south, instead of heading back west.
Anything to avoid the west.
Anything to get the fuck out of Fuckno.
The bed I’d saved up for and bought months ago held cold comfort to me, all freshly showered and sparkly clean.
The water ran red with desert ochre and other rusted metals from the dust I’d accumulated during one hell of a long day.
I stared up at the ceiling, listening to HGTTG on public radio. Arthur Dent made awesome sammiches for the Golgafrincham to celebrate.
That would be cool, to drink beer to soften the blow of teleporting to a spaceship, to escape the destruction of the Earth.
New worlds awaited. I would grab my towel and wear my bathrobe forever after like a starlit Hugh Heffner.
Instead, I sank into a deep slumber, like a pebble drifting down in a jar of honey.
I did not awake until the morning sun had passed from peeking into my window.
It shined down outside from directly overhead, and the whole place was silent. A note on the counter read that my mom had taken my little sisters to the mall for some winter clothes.
This was how I would awaken each day, after my mom would finally bail out of Fuckno, with my sisters in tow. I never left Fuckno, you see, until much later.
Oddly enough, I felt quite all right. This is how it was in the morning for me back then. The troubles of the previous day slept soundly while I awakened in amnesiatic bliss, for a few minutes at least.
The sun shined on the back patio and beckoned me to come outside, coffee mug in hand, to partake of one of the only things that California would always use to bring a smile to my face.
You will see what I mean tomorrow, my friend.
Cartoon about House, for your Sunday pleasure.
Playing a piano with your friend Dick.
Speaking of raging dicks, Rage comic Collection, for \b\ dude Jambo.
Speaking of \b\ Wikileaks dude: Hero or not?
Speaking of massive dicks, now the U.S. wants to follow China with internet censorship?
Bizarre Signs site. Start off with Dream Boyfriend. Huh.
Cheesy space pic compilation. But me likey space. Sorry.
Cool cave pics. Reed Flute style, yo.
Interesting read, below the cartoon. You may not like this. It’s odd.
Don’t land on your face. Someone may put a win foot on your back.
Or, you may win in another way. Confessions of a welfare recipient.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
OK, one more for ya.
Some Memorial Day BBQ recipes from them gawd damned Canucks up north of us.