Day 1: Dallas, a death wish, and why I'm taking the scenic route to San Francisco

I'm starting my road trip today. In about an hour, in fact.

I feel slightly nauseated. No, wait. EXTREMELY nauseated. I can't tell if I'm excited or not, as the churning in my stomach is pretty much overriding all other sensations. I feel like I should feel differently right now: like maybe a sense of anticipation, or adventure. But really, I just want to hurl. And scrap this whole idea and jump on the next flight to San Francisco.

I'm not the greatest behind the wheel in the best of times--I am very anxious, very nervous--but now adding to these is the small element of not having driven in years, unless you count that time in San Francisco. Or that time in Maui (thank you, Wendy, for being willing to put your life in my hands). And now, not only am I driving, but I'm doing it cross-country. Alone. In winter.

I don't know where I get these bursts of inspiration, these ideas of RONA YOU SHOULD DO THIS! like the one that hit a few months ago that led to the formation of  this road trip, but I swear these bursts are trying to kill me.

I will be posting again from my next stop: Dallas, Texas. And yes, I know that's only three hours away, which so far makes this The World's Slowest Road Trip Ever, but I've got PEEPS, yo, peeps I want to SEE, because I haven't seen them in YEARS. And the whole point of this road trip is not to discover America, it's to discover old friends that I haven't seen in far too long that I want to love and hug and be merry with. Oh, and to eat my heart out.

I leave you with this, from Kurt Vonnegut:

“I work at home, and if I wanted to, I could have a computer right by my bed, and I'd never have to leave it. But I use a typewriter, and afterwards I mark up the pages with a pencil. Then I call up this woman named Carol out in Woodstock and say, "Are you still doing typing?" Sure she is, and her husband is trying to track bluebirds out there and not having much luck, and so we chitchat back and forth, and I say, "OK, I'll send you the pages."

Then I'm going down the steps, and my wife calls up, "Where are you going?" I say, "Well, I'm going to go buy an envelope." And she says, "You're not a poor man. Why don't you buy a thousand envelopes? They'll deliver them, and you can put them in a closet." And I say, "Hush." So I go down the steps here, and I go out to this newsstand across the street where they sell magazines and lottery tickets and stationery. I have to get in line because there are people buying candy and all that sort of thing, and I talk to them. The woman behind the counter has a jewel between her eyes, and when it's my turn, I ask her if there have been any big winners lately. I get my envelope and seal it up and go to the postal convenience center down the block at the corner of 47th Street and 2nd Avenue, where I'm secretly in love with the woman behind the counter. I keep absolutely poker-faced; I never let her know how I feel about her. One time I had my pocket picked in there and got to meet a cop and tell him about it. Anyway, I address the envelope to Carol in Woodstock. I stamp the envelope and mail it in a mailbox in front of the post office, and I go home. And I've had a hell of a good time. And I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you any different.”