The autobiographer would like to point out that she has already outperformed her last road trip due to the fact that she has not yet mistaken a public fountain as a jacuzzi.
The autobiographer would also like to point out that, at somewhere West of Chicago, she is making relatively good time.
As well she would like to make it public knowledge that she has not yet bought any food. No hamburgers, no gum, no milk shakes, no chips, no snacks of any sort. For this she would like some recognition. She would also like a hamburger.
Amazing how listening to the latest Great American Novel and 1,000 miles on the same highway just makes the Midwest slide by outside the window. At night the waters of the hotel pool are so thickly chlorinated that when she immerses herself she feels instantly medicated. Alone in the water, again, she slips down and lets the water close above her. So many cities circumnavigated today. Cleveland, Toledo, musical Chicago, fearful Detroit. New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois. A sign, out of nowhere, illogically, towards Memphis Tennessee.
The autobiographer thinks it would be prudent to sleep now.