I knew about my love too, my samurai

We had to go to Lynchburg for lunch with the mother-in-law Sunday. I felt bad because there are lots of people I like very much in Lynchburg and care about, but we only stayed about an hour--long enough to lunch and then get the hell out. We raced back across the scrubby piedmont and didn't look back until we'd reached the cold safety of Afton, enough distance to recover, glowering back over a dark beer in a little pub. I felt a little shaken in the mental health department.

I loathe the place. If I could go my whole life and never see its sickly Waffle House and weeds and cigarette butts and rusty bus benches again, I would. I don't know if everybody feels that way about their college town--that it's generally disconcerting, like seeing half-remembered pictures taken during ones painful childhood--or if it's just something specific to my dysfunction and that city. If you were to ask me, I'd say I mostly enjoyed undergrad, so I don't know what that's about.


Tonight, meanwhile, has been kind of fucking weird. I felt really bad and then I listened to a bunch of Tori Amos and made like the best rootbeer float in the world. I don't know if it's safe to admit to how truly and deeply I love Tori Amos, but I am because, dramatically, and mostly because of all the sugar from the root beer, I've stopped caring about everything! Everything! Except root beers!


Here's a picture of it before my mouth happened to it.

And like five seconds after. Oh my God, so much sugar, so happy.