Road Trips
Solo road trips are a breed all their own. I’m convinced that the perfect time to be alone in a car is 3 hours. It’s not too long that you lose your mind, but not too short that it doesn’t feel like a really good counseling session. (But I might be biased because my home was 3 hours by car from where I went to college.) I usually spend my time loudly jamming out to music or sobbing my eyes out. On not so rare occasions, I do both at the same time. Barely mumbling the lyrics out through the tears streaming down my face. But I’m by myself, so no one cares. I can be as free or as vulnerable as I like. As I drive today again, another three hours, I hardly seem to enjoy it. Because I’m going to find a new home. One that’s more than three hours from my last. One that I don’t want to be at. One in Northern Utah, and I hate Northern Utah. It’s a Hellhole. But I rock out while I drive, and I cry about the lyrics, and I cry about leaving our friends, and I cry about my grandma si
