No matter. I didn't really want to go anyway.
So, we managed to get me on the plane through various terrorist threats and skillful bribery.
Good Lord, you call this a plane?! These are child's seats I'm sitting in. There's a soldier sleeping next to me, like that old '80s song by Berlin, and a really weird, creepy guy sitting next to a girl who might be a model and who is 2 rows in front of me. She seems thrilled about it, too. There is a big, fat guy across the aisle from the beautiful model who is clearly trying as hard as he can to squeeze himself into the seat well enough so that the stewardesses can get past him in the aisle. No worries, mate, 'cause they don't mind bashing into you, as my left shoulder can atest.
The rental car was a cruel deception by a Mexican woman who reminded me of Jorja Fox, otherwise known as Sara on CSI. She swore on Juan Valdez that it was a Mustang GT with V8, and don't you know but she was a liar.
So me and this damned V6 managed to battle our way out of Dallas and over to Fort Worth in record time for such a wimpy little motor. My coworker was white from admiration at my driving skills in the wild Western Dallas rush-hour traffic. He must really love Fort Worth because by the time we got here at the tail end of rush hour he was saying, "please don't make me get back in that car. I don't want to get back in that car ever again!" And later that night he offered to drive. I think he was embarassed at what a great driver I am and so he wanted to try to show me how good he is now that we've arrived and rush hour is over.
Sorry mate, but it don't count unless you've got a Texas-sized bitch on her cell phone riding your ass in her Dodge Durango at 85 mph. That's when your driving greatness really shines through. I know it kept me inspired, as did those fabulously trendy sunglasses she was wearing. Woo, shades of Elvis!
So anyway, Kami texted me while I was in Little Rock and said "Coconut Rum=yum." I, of course, responded with a photo of a very poorly though out ad campaign from Arkansas and a long, slowly typed story about Captain Morgan or something like that. I can't remember what I wrote, but I never heard from her again and the effort required to type long messages using only a cell phone left me too exhausted to harass her further.
While in Dallas, I stopped by Kami's house in the exclusive golf/ski lake community where she and Roger Staubach both live, but when I rang her bell a tiny voice which sounded remarkably like hers said from behind the closed door, "Kami isn't home. Go away, you creepy weirdo."
So, having missed Kami, I had to go on to Fort Worth. I'm thinking I might try again on the way home, or maybe just pick a random neighbor and visit them instead. I do that sometimes. In fact, I did that on New Year's Eve once when a guy I didn't like was throwing a party and I didn't want to go, but I didn't want to not go to ANY party, so I went to the house next door to his and partied with them instead. They didn't know who I was, but everyone there simply assumed I must be with someone else they know, so it was all good. Plus, they gave me wine, wheras he was a pussy and had no alcohol of any kind at his so-called "party." Bleah.
Anyway, my hotel room gives me a lovely view of a Chicken express sign. It's fabulous. And my room is right next to the ice machine, so you know I'll sleep like a colicky baby tonight.
Cheers!
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