Of course I had to blow a tire on the Shalamov Memorial Highway mere moments after I dropped my reality shifter and broke the screen and wasn't anywhere near a mall kiosk where some smelly man promises to fix it within an hour only to tell you that they ran out of that part but hey here's your device and torx screws and metal shields and yeah I ripped the ribbon cable like a fucking idiot but aren't you the guy that once drove his truck loaded with roman candles into a city bus?
Thumbing it for an hour, trying to get to the next exit, eventually a copy of the next Timothy Pinching novel was thrown at me from a passing school bus. I was able to read about 30 pages before I gave up, which is good, because I couldn't do more than 15 with his other novels.
When you write for nobody, everybody will try to read it and then pretend it's great.
I'd make it to the off-ramp just in time to watch the diners and gas stations and motels shut down due to the quarantine. I would be rounded up and placed in the gulag or laogai or Fuckbutter Emporium due to referring to something as "flame retardant" when I meant "homosexual with an extra chromosome".
