This car, this car, this car.
I'm in a gas station writing this. I just had to drive through a section of snow and ice on I-94 that I am certain would have put the Honda into the guardrail, yet this car never even thought about slipping. This old green station wagon is probably the best car I have ever driven.
Yes, Seth, if you're reading this, even better than your father's Jaguar.
I keep meaning to talk about that some time. I really will.
Anyway, Fargo is asleep all the way in the back of the car, back in the "station wagon" part. I stacked up several boxes I'm bringing back with me, and he seems happy. I filled this thing up on nice inexpensive Wisconsin diesel fuel (I've gotten better at learning where to find it and what it should cost) and after getting some pop and a bag of cashews, it's off to home. The snow should end soon.
It's now much later. I got back to find that absolutely nothing was awaiting my attention. I'd told Maureen I was going to be gone for this week's Saturday rehearsal, so there was no message from her. No message from Michael, who said he'd be somewhere. No pressing bills or mail.
It feels like I've been away for about a year. The apartment is a little cold, too. Fargo is walking around sniffing everything in the place.
I just went in the other room and looked at myself in the mirror. I've got a few gray hairs lately. The skin on the back of my elbows is always a little dry. My teeth hurt. I think I'm ready to be 30 now. Three months to go.