Nebraska is my new least favorite state. Nebraska is a wasteland; fertile only with corn, pitched-barns, junk cars and bad costumer service. Kirs is filled with quiet joy this afternoon; however, he has been less excited by the landscape since we entered homely old Nebraska. Nevertheless, even now as Nebraska sustains it's Bb aesthetics Kris whistles, smiles, and blows puckery, baby kisses at me.
I am bored.
Today, I will break Kris. No one could be this pleasant all the time, and god-dammit I am going to prove that. I will turn the front seats of this car into a coffin and close the both of us up in it. Kris will be the paralyzed sucker buried still alive and I will be the bugs, the earth, the crazy quiet and the burgundy dark. I will be the smell of wood chips and dirt. I will poke his nipples and stick stuff in his beard until the granite slab above us vibrates with his ghost.
A used straw, a zip-tie, a paper plane folded from a gum wrapper, a banana clip, and a small battery made their way into his beard before he politely asked me to stop. The Banana clip fell out, I frowned, and Kris tilted his chin up so I could reapply the clip. He shook the nicknacks from his magical beard; all of them rained from the peppery cloud except the paper plane. The wrapper plane remained nuzzled in the glorious wiry mess hiding from Kris, and glaring at me like a cat under a deck. I watched the plane for a few moments until it finally plummeted to the valley of his clavicle. He giggled, that son-of-a-bitch.
Iowa is the meth head - thieving- Jan Brady of the United States. I hate it more than Nebraska. Kris and I stupidly attempted to say at "Relax Motel" who's caregiver was a wobbly scarecrow of a man. I suspected our scarecrow was being controlled telepathically by a grey and white cat with two collars who smirked at Kris upon our credit card exchange.
The room was filthy: hair in the sheets, moss on the toilet bowl, a fridge adorned with two Budlites and a ziplock back of meat. The air in the room was gelatinous, ghostly, and smelled like K-Fed. Upon his attempt to use the toilet Kris knew he wouldn't sleep if we stayed that night at "Relax Motel". Then Kris looked at me, his future wife, and decided we had to leave.
The twitchy scarecrow squealed at us and refused to refund our $50. I ate up the loss and drove to the Super 8 where we were offered a pool, laundry, and a work out room.
