Dear Planet Earth,
Two cars, six rest stops, and nineteen stale cinnamon rolls later, weâ€™ve made it Los Angeles. Iâ€™m charging up my electronics in the least disgusting Starbucks on the Hollywood Walk of Fame â€” itâ€™s hard to tell if theÂ mole men made this place such a rotting hellscape or if this is what LA always looked like.
Iâ€™ve only been to California twice for vacation, and even then my mom made sure to keep us only around the San Diego area. Still, thereâ€™s a charm to this place, a feeling in the air that weâ€™re experiencing the real heart of Americaâ€™s past, present, and future. Itâ€™s the same feeling Iâ€™d get sometimes walkingÂ the Strip back in Vegas.
This soulless neon cesspit, Iâ€™d think to myself in a drunken stupor.Â This is life.
But that was all a different life â€” in a different world. Homework, money, sexual frustration. My problems today involve constipation and an elderly woman going through a complete mental breakdown.
Mrs. Bing started wailing uncontrollablyÂ somewhere past Barstow. She begged us to stop driving, to let her go and meet back up with her daughter.Â So, weâ€™ve stopped. Weâ€™ll try to find some other survivors, stock up on supplies, and hope to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that Mrs. Bing gets her shit together before weâ€™re ambushed yet again.
Maria later whispered to me that her daughter was one of the many we lost atÂ Apple Valley.
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