Yesterday, we left Northern Virginia and headed down I-95, driving towards Richmond at which point we switched to I-85 to head towards Atlanta, Bonnie's home. We stopped at the North Carolina border to pee and switch drivers. A couple hours later, we stopped for some Taco Bell. A couple hours later than that, we stopped to fill up on gas and peed in a nasty gas station bathroom. And then a couple hours after that, we had arrived at our destination, Bonnie's house and were at another stop, another pause on our little roadtrip, our last stop before heading off to Sarasota bright and early tomorrow morning.
Last night, in Bonnie's house, in Georgia, in the suburbs of Atlanta, on Jefferson themed street names, I fell into a comfortable sleep after watching a documentary on blaxploitation cinema with obnoxious commentary from Tarantino and "bell hooks," who just to spite her will be referred to as Bell Hooks. Soon, we are supposed to go meet Bonnie's dad for lunch, and then are going to go to Athens to visit Caroline, Bonnie's sister.
There is a list of fifteen people from New College that I would like to have sex with in descending order. There is also a list for Bonnie. This is one of the things, one of the car activites we did to entertain ourself on the drive. We also played MASH and an insane amount of the mountain game, which is played by naming three people and then having the other player say which one they would make their sex slave, which one they would make their platonic friend, and which one they would throw off the mountain. It can actually be a pretty fun game, especially when you pick three people that the other person hates. To be kind, I will use one of the non-New College examples of people: Jesse Helms, Nancy Regan, and Bob Dole. Bonnie chose Nancy as her sex slave, Bob as her platonic friend, and she very excitedly chose to throw Jesse over the mountain.
There were also extended conversations about the word "ho-bag," about sex and guilt, and about Bonnie's excessivly hostile reactions to religion sparked by us passing a "Let's have a talk. -God" billboard. And then of course, there was also the singing along to music to entertain ourselves, but more so, and possibly related to, to keep ourselves awake, to keep from falling into a comfortable sleep with the beautifully blurred images of America passing us by at 70 miles per hour. Colors, individual branches, lane dividers, road signs all blurring into one long trail, losing the distinctions, the visual boundaries that allow us to call them seperate things, a tree a tree, and a row of corn a row of corn, becoming one unified thing, the American road, a thing appearing to move forward like a bullet, a bullet led by us, us sitting at the head of this bullet, watching things blur past us in a long trail of memories of childhood car trips, of giganitc Paul Bunyans and how they are the same as giganitic roadside peaches, and they are always there, always will be approached, looking towards it as one thing, until you get up next to it, your car does, and you pass the motherfucking thing, leaving its static ass in the dust stirred by your car, by your fucking movement, and it melts into the blur of interstate backgrounds too, is another thing passed by us, visually taken in and then absorbed into the larger image as we are moving forward, just moving, on the go always and forever, towards things we hope are bigger and better because we are Americans and David Bowie is afraid of us.
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