Last night, I was thinking of what to write to you today while starting to doze off just prior to handing over the wheel. I woke up with one of those Holy Mother I’m Dozing Off kind of starts, and, as I was now more alert than usual during this leg of the trip, I made the sad discovery that what I’d read as the Bikini Avenue Exit was actually something far more G-Rated, and significantly less scandalous. Which was a drag for me, because I’ve spent months thinking, as I sleepily drove past the Bikini Avenue Exit, “well, no matter, if we break down here, I can live in a place like Bikini Avenue.” And now that I know better, you see, I’m a little nervous… what would happen were I to get stuck there, in a place NOT Bikini Avenue?
There’s a moral here somewhere, involving holding on to tired hallucinations, and applauding half-conscious on-road activity. You would probably be best to ignore it. Have a story instead!