And so, with the ceremonial donning of the comfy shoes, it was official: I was on my way home.
In the end, I only made it as far as Pecos, Texas, last night. In hindsight, I should've stopped in El Paso. I never did get my disco nap and the resultant fatigue caused me to hallucinate. The highway became purple. I was driving a purple highway.
It took three cups of coffee just to span the 200 miles between El Paso and Pecos. I didn't finish any one of them, mind you. I just kept buying them in an attempt to find a decent cup. It turns out, the gas stations that dot Texas's westernmost span of I-10 serve the world's most awful java. No amount of Sugar in the Raw could save them.
So my only goals today were to find a good cup of joe and to cover the final seven hours home. No more wrinkled clothes, no more clogged showerheads, no more border patrol checkpoints. Tomorrow, La Femme Canyonero and I will part ways.
Wrapping my already-peeling, window-side arm with a special anti-UV cuff, I fed Love Psychedelico into the dash, then merged with the highway one last time.
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