Edited for content...

Day 4
State’s I’ve Ass-kicked Today: Texas
Current Location: Roswell, NM
No. of Days I've Worn These Socks: 3 (I wore flip-flops Monday)

So I'm chillin' in a crack den, otherwise known as the Roswell Super 8. I chose it because it's cheap. That should be the slogan here: "Come because it's cheap. Leave because you got burgled and strangled to death." The room is something out of those movies where the family has to go into protective custody and they get put in the shady hotel with dirty carpet and a bedspread from 1972. If there's no blog tomorrow night, somebody call the po-po.

This morning, in Oklahoma, I met God.
And he was made with gravy.

I went to "Classen's" for breakfast - a run-down dive that happened to be within thirty feet of the hotel I stayed in. I got my share of odd looks, for being alone and because I spoke with an English accent. Obviously, I've been eating and going to movies and stuff by myself, and that's slightly unusual, but I've been thinking of ways I could take it a step farther, do shit that would be really weird to do alone. Like, I could go through a corn maze and then celebrate wildly with myself at the end, hugging myself and shouting "I DID IT! I DID IT! I didn't think I could, but I did! Yaaaaaay!!" And I hate how people give you automatic pity when you eat by yourself. "Just one?" said with furrowed brow and pouted lip (you can see the thought bubble reading "You poor pathetic girl that nobody loves. That's it, come in and eat your feelings"). So I've come up with some inappropriate responses to the "Is it just you today?" question: "Yeah, my best friend died three days ago. Thanks for rubbing salt in my wounds." OR "Yeah, I shot my boyfriend point blank in the face this morning. Stupid cops think it was his business partner. Ha! Fucking pigs." OR, my favorite "Yeah, my husband left me because we found out I'm barren. Could I have a booth, please? Thaaaaaanks."

Anyway, back to my spiritual breakfast experience. I asked the waitress what to order and she said she'd have the kitchen put together something, which I took to mean five cooks were going to ejaculate in my food. What came out was ejaculate-free (I think) and nothing short of amazing. They call it "Biscuit Debris". It's biscuits and gravy sprinkled with three kinds of meat and smothered in cheese. Not going to lie, I got a little moist. I took a bite and angels sang. It was RIDICULOUS. I could only eat about a third of it before I felt full and sick. Later I had explosive diarrhea at the Route 66 museum. It was totally worth it.

Next stop, Route 66 museum. Run by old ladies who really want you to know and love that darn road. Not necessarily for the MTV generation. I felt guilty enough to spend a while pretending I gave a shit about road-building so the sweet old lady at the register wouldn't feel like her twilight years were a total waste. Okay, it wasn't that bad. I think my memories are just colored by the unpleasantness I did in their bathroom. Here's a picture of a picture of a sign that might have been somewhere on Route 66 at some point. And now you know what my afternoon was like.

Next I hit the road. It poured today and the only CD I hadn't listened to four thousand times was a Death Cab for Cutie CD. Needless to say, I almost drove myself into a telephone pole. I tried to distract myself with the signs - lots of weird signs out there today. There was an exit sign that read "Corn". There's a town called Corn, Oklahoma. Awesome. Oh, and I forgot, in Tennessee there was a sign praising "The Infant Jesus of Prague." I looked it up and apparently people worship a wooden statue of baby Jesus from Prague. Really. There's a church dedicated to the thing in fucking Tennessee. Southerners are craaaazy. Speaking of which, the radio is a complete void now. Christian rock, Christian ministry, Christian "news" (basically people talking about how they're trying to "pray away abortion"). Yikes.

Later I stopped on a frontage road in Amarillo, Texas to see Cadillac Ranch - an art thing where these cars are lined up in the ground and people spray-paint them. Pretty cool, actually, until I noticed someone was videotaping me looking around at the cars. I pretended not to notice and tried my best to suck it in. The guy said it was for a Swedish TV show. Right. Definitely a news piece on obesity or a segment on the Style Network about how not to dress.

Then I arrived here in rainy Roswell. Memo to self: Roswell sucks my balls.

Luckily, I can sleep well in this murder hole knowing that I'm under the watchful protection of a small wooden statue of the infant Jesus purchased by someone a long time ago in Prague. Whew.