THE EIGHT-HOUR DRIVE

It's in ALL CAPS because that's how it feels. Eight hours. In the car. It's really quite the ordeal, you know. There's not a lot to see on the freeway, and central California isn't exactly the most picturesque anyway if you know what I mean. The worst part is having to make the drive alone. That means eight full CDs you have to listen to before you're there, and no one to discuss them with. At least one stop for gas without someone to run in and get you a Coke. A million opportunities to point out scenery but no one to talk about it with. It's almost a full day of total isolation, and you can't even read a book or surf the net. You just have to keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel, and maybe if you're lucky you can manage to eat something without spilling on yourself or the upholstery. I could never be a trucker.

Anyway, eight hours later I pulled into the welcoming driveway of my parents' house.