NUMBER SEVEN: The Halfway Day

When I was about eleven or twelve, I hitchhiked for the first time. I was on a bike ride in the middle of the Nevada desert. It was actually an Indian reservation, so as you can imagine, by sundown there was buttfucking no one except for some cows and an empty Indian reservation school. The group of people I was biking with not only did this ride, kind of a pseudorace, every week, but they actually lived and were used to the altitude. At the beginning of the second and final lap around the reservation, I fell off the back off the peleton-but I was not the first. My mom had dropped off long before I had, so I figured that she was still toddling around back there. She never showed up. The sun started to set and all I could see were those cows and the road and the grass and the mountains. 

One lonely, old orange Bug came tumbling down the road, the first car I had seen in ages. I got off my bike and the car pulled to a stop in front of me. It was stuffed with shit and an old hippie-ish woman with long grey hair. I told her I needed to get to the fire station, and she said that was on her way and she'd be happy to give me a lift. I was a little uneasy, but I figured she probably didn't want to rape me, especially because she was going through so much trouble to fit my bike in the car. About a minute after we got going down the road, my mom came screaming, really tearing 

past us in the opposite direction. 

After our trip to Aquasplash was cancelled at the last minute (something to do with Laura's period, probably something she wouldn't be flattered to know that I broadcasted on the internet, but I have two words: "Aleve" and "tampons"), I was left with nothing to do, so I went on a solo excursion. I passed bus stop after bus stop until I reached one that looked promising, and began to wait. And wait. And when a car rolled up to ask if I needed a ride, I figured why not? Again, the person offering the ride was an old woman, only not a hippie, and she offered me a ride by saying she was going to church. Dangerous? I think not. 

So I hitchhiked into Cagnes sur Mer and walked around searching for a Coke, something I have been fucking craving because all we have to drink here is milk, 

water, and this olgeat shit which tastes like yeasty dirty dish water. I have no idea why there are pictures of some kind of nut on the bottle. I could have picked anywhere, but I chose the place that sold a bottle of pop for two and a half Euros. Why'd I pay the price? Simple. The waiter was an adorable boy. All future entrepreneurs take note: sex sells.

Oh, and speaking of sex, I had a dream last night that I had a newborn son. I was going to a school dance and there was someone taking a shower in the stall next to me and getting the water all over me, and then Mikalia Woods, who was in the stall on my other side, thought I was one of her friends and reached under the barricade and I was like, Wow you are drunk, and then my brother bitched out on of the people who were busting kids for drugs in front of the whole school and was like the hero, and the whole time I couldn't stop thinking about how weird it was that I was pregnant and I was really enamored of my young son, who was apparently a nameless bastard, because my subconscious did not provide such details. 

Oh, and here you go, assholes: