Living to Write Another Day

Well, that was an interesting day yesterday.  I managed my early morning post, bid everyone a good day, finished my coffee–and almost didn’t make it to put up this post.

About forty-five minutes after leaving the rest stop I started getting tired–extremely tired.  As in, “I’m Falling Asleep at the Wheel” tired.  As in, “I’m Gonna Wreck This Sucker Any Minute Now” tired.  I know I dozed off at least twice and pulled myself out of my stupor so I wouldn’t do something exciting like zip off the road at 120 kilometers per hours (75 miles per hour, but flipping it up to kilometers makes it sound like I was racing) and do a couple of barrel rolls before coming to a messy stop.

I made it to the next rest stop and snapped this picture:

I'm awake.  Almost.  Sorta.  Kinda.  What's awake?

I’m awake. Almost. Sorta. Kinda . . . what’s awake?

What I hold in my hand is a large Panera extra dark roast with two espresso shots jacking that caffeine level to eleven.  Seriously, I was about as out of it right there as I’ve ever been, and I’ve survived moments where I’ve blacked out for minutes at a time with no recollection of what happened, usually a club or behind the wheel of another car while in the middle of nowhere.  This was nearly one of those same moments, only thirty-five years down the time stream.  I can’t even get my barrettes in straight.

I spent nearly ninety minutes getting wired and awake before trying to drive again–because, let’s face it, there was no way in hell I was dying in Ohio.  Hell, no.  I’ll barely accept death in Indiana, and they only way I’ll check out in Ohio is if i’m trying to steal the SR-71 down at the Air Force Museum while being chased by security guards with high-powered weapons.  That’s the way to go.  Crashing and burning on the Ohio Toll Road?  Not even in the top one thousand ways I wanna shuck this mortal coil.

But I made it home, due in large part to the two hours of rage driving I experience coming through Indiana.  For some reason I keep missing the “Speed limit is 70, but you can drive 67 in the left lane, not a problem” signs that must be set up somewhere, because there were a whole lot of assholes on the toll road driving exactly that way.  One day I’m going to wield a gigantic Road Warrior-style metal brace to the front of my vehicle and start pushing people off the road when they do that, because . . . well, because it’ll make me feel better.

I finally ended up collapsing about 9:30 PM, but not after I wrote two hundred and twenty-two words in my current scene.  No, really:  I started writing, and ended up nearly falling asleep at the computer.  Reading over what I’d written I’m surprised it isn’t five paragraphs of utter gibberish.  I only made it about half way through the last paragraph, however, before my brain began shutting down, but I’m pretty sure I still know what I was going to say.  In fact, I know exactly what I’m going to write–

I’m just glad I’m here so I don’t leave Kerry hanging in the lurch with his spell . . .