There is a large Chipotle burrito sitting in my stomach. It was delicious, it was satisfying, it was eaten while in the company of friends I haven’t seen in toolong, but let me tell you, there’s nothing more uncomfortable than driving with a burrito stomach lump pressing against your seatbelt like a guacamole-filled tumor.
Despite the Burrito That Wouldn’t Disperse, my drive home was pleasant. Because I do whatever the GPS tells me to do, I ended up taking the long route. The long route consisted of twisting country roads, and dark houses scattered across snowy fields. The sky was the purplish color it turns late at night, and I could see the clouds moving below it.
I thought, as I drove, about what would happen if my truck should break down in such a place. I pictured myself desperately locking doors and calling Mom, tearfully telling her to come quickly before some farmer/chainsaw murderer appeared. But then, being the sentimental person that I am, I imagined myself getting out of the truck, walking across fields with only the snow crunching under my feet as company. I imagined how quiet the fields would be, how still. I would trudge until I reached the end of the world, and then I would kneel down and compose something poignant and romantic.
I was only startled out of my reverie by an oncoming car angrily blinking at me to turn off my brights. As I did so, John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads” came on the radio, reminding me that despite rogue burritos and car troubles and murderers and poetic wanderings, the important thing was to get home to my Mom, who Always Waits Up, and my bed, which is Where the Blogging Happens.