I will never underestimate the relief a good night's sleep can bring, the previous night's suffocating anxieties washed away with the morning's benevolent and glowing potential, even if that morning is spent in rainy Dallas traffic, frustrated to the point of homicidal thoughts, chain-smoking menthol cigarettes.
But now we're giggling in a quiet, intelligent house in Little Rock, being put up for the night by a quiet, intelligent black man in a Ramones hoodie named, simply, T. We're fully saturated with beer and weed, smoked out of one of Harry's apples (without his consent). The night went extremely well. I gorged on blackened tilapia tacos, and I made it to T's house without killing anybody. And now here we are, stoned and giddy and cackling like hyenas. This living room is, at this moment, the only place I'd like to be, our drunken little Loki vigil interrupted only by T's roommates irritably stumbling through on their way to the bathroom, or to walk their dog. They are all female, and they are unimpressed.
Turns out I was premature in my earlier dismissal. I still hate Texas. It is an unbelievable relief to be in Arkansas.
We were originally going to stay at another house, full of partying punk rock kids. The free beer and cute roommates were enticing reasons to stay, but after a .38 got pulled and waved sloppily around the living room, and after a big black girl with biohazard tattoos (and who arrived driving a hearse with questionable personalized plates) tried repeatedly to molest Doyle (or so he claimed), we decided to take T up on his offer for a quiet and more prudent decompression chamber. We have a long drive to Lawrence tomorrow.
So here we are, giggling.
Walt: $2.41 (coffee, peanuts)