No joke, around the Atlanta Airport (which I’m sure is actually a Hellmouth, but we mere mortals aren’t supposed to know it) are eighteen lanes of activity, nine for each driving direction. And no one in that area knew how to use a turn signal or understood that 3 inches of clearance was not enough room for your H2 to pass through.
I finally get out of the ATL, and reach Chattanooga where I was going, and land for the night. And have tequila and delicious food and fun times with Stomp and Mrs. Stomp. I’ve known Stomp going on five years, and it’s almost scary how well he knows me. And women in general- and scarier still that there are a dozen teenage versions of him running around between his son and his son’s friends. And Mrs. Stomp was a blast, she and I talked dance and lingerie. And how hard it is to bra shop.
Tuesday same back in the car. And I drove through a few more states, had a few more yelling bouts at people who can’t use a turn signal if it meant their life, and tried to out run the semis that were riding next to me. I do not like driving around semis. I don’t like train tracks either. Moving on.
As I’m driving through these states to my end destination of the Great White North of Cold and Snow and Black Ice, I am getting gas at the handy gas stations right off any exit I come upon when I’m down to a quarter tank. And, like most other people, I use the pay at the pump feature. Because it’s easier than going in, prepaying, going out to pump gas, going back inside because you overpaid (which I do a lot because my car has a tiny gas tank) and waiting for your money back.
And, while I was paying at the pump, some fuckwit in California stole my card number and went on a shopping spree. Who the hell spends over twenty-five dollars in food at McDonald’s? Who eats that much damn food?! Thank Bob that my bank froze my card and called and told me about it. And that the card freezing didn’t happen at the start of the trip. Or I’d have been calling Stomp to come get me and Thunder Butt and having my breakdown in his front room. Instead, I had my breakdown in my car somewhere on I-76.
By the way, is anyone else struck by how advanced we are? I’m not talking treating everyone with kindness and respect, as we sure aren’t there, but how far our technology has come. I was I-75, and I looked into the backseat to check on Thunder Butt. I had laid the seats down, thrown one of her beds in the back, and piled my suitcases and bags around it so she had a fort thing going on. She was passed out cold, on her back with all four legs in the air, and her tongue hanging out, just like she sleeps at home. And I’m doing ninety down the interstate, talking on my cell phone to my mother on her cell phone while she was at the store. And I accepted this as normal! And so does Thunder Butt- we were doing warp speeds for her, and she didn’t even know it.
Mind boggling.
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