Dear Diary,
Haven’t wrote much, slept through most of the trip so far. It’s like 5ish, but with the sky out here, I could hardly tell. Pukey, melted, rainbow sherbet Nebraska skies.
Bethany won’t stop wailing after dad cruised through some play-doh roadkill. I guess it could be the reverse and something ended up becoming roadkill. These days with Dad, you never know. The wormy grin kinda clues me in, more than Bethany’s sobbing.
Got woken up when Mom dropped her last gel pen doing the sudoku puzzle on her forehead in the rearview mirror. She’s asked for my last one. I’d protest any other time but I’m a little sick. Or spastic.
Wondering if it’ll stop smelling like coagulated grease when we cross the border. Bethany smashed my cherry pie in the seat, all over my copy of Fear and Loathing. Inside this 98 degree van, I’m at peace with that. With that new, makeshift air freshener, it doesn’t reek too bad until the Nebraska air seeps in. Then I look at the sky and Bethany’s moldy cheek and want to barf several times over.
Not fair to her though since we all have our struggles, I guess. At least I can still write, even after getting grabbed by that gang of pus suckers back in Omaha. But you already know about that. Happy to report the warts have stopped multiplying.
I’m about to hand over my last pen to Mom so I’ll return later Diary. Probably not for a while. Dad doesn’t like stopping to scavenge much anymore. Can’t blame him. Too putrid and the roads are a mess these days.
-G
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