Why I've Been M.I.A.

[Please excuse the poor-quality camera phone photos in this entry. I am still having real-camera problems.]

As announced, I spent the weekend in Atlanta.

Pros: I visited H&M, which makes #6 for me worldwide (Boston, Dublin, Salzburg, Prague, Emeryville (San Fransisco too?), and now Atlanta), as well as my old friends Taqueria Del Sol, Fellini's, the Flying Biscuit, and the Vortex (well, the outside anyway).

Cons: I missed the DragonCon parade and the season premiere of Gossip Girl, the latter of which I am now watching on YouTube.

I guess that's pretty much it.

Oh, yeah. I also spent quality time catching up with people for whom I feel genuine affection. Whatever.

About 100 miles into my trip home, somewhere outside Anderson, South Carolina, I ran over an object that caused my back right tire to rip and shred apart at the seams. I pulled up to a gas station and had the clerk call someone -- apparently they have these people on call -- to come change it for me (not that I COULDN'T change it myself, of course; I just didn't feel like it).

The guy came, put my tiny little spare tire on for me, and made me promise under no circumstances to go more than 60 miles per hour for the remainder of my trip. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he even pointed at me with his cigarette and called out the window, "55, baby!"

So for 300 miles I puttered along in the right lane, watching trucks and old people pass me. This extended my 6 hour trip into 8.5 hours, and the long-descended darkness combined with the "ACREE'S LAST NIGHT IN ATLANTA!!!! WOOO!!!" attitude of the night before meant that I required several coffee-and-bathroom stops to stay alert. The coffee-and-bathroom combination, however, is surprisingly hard to obtain late on a Labor Day night. At 10:30 (a 10:30 that FELT like 2 a.m.) in "downtown" Archdale, N.C., I was driving around looking for an open gas station or fast food restaurant, bladder bursting, when I pulled into a shopping center with the intent of turning around and came across this:

Needless to say, what I now like to call "Comic Sans Diner" was a sight for sore eyes. I walked in to find some old Blues tune droning throughout the restaurant and three regulars at the counter turning in unison on their stools to eye me up and down. Yet I wasn't the least bit intimidated! Thank God for that welcoming, cheerful font on the restaurant's exterior!

In one instant, having first been broken down by a strange brew of homesickness, exhaustion, and the fear of being raped and murdered on the side of the highway in the rural south, I was transformed into a card-carrying supporter of that delightfully playful font Comic Sans, and will soon go on tour, speaking at high schools on its behalf. (Incidentally, does anyone know how to change the default script on blogger?)

Thanks to Comic Sans Diner, I am now safe and warm in the city of my residence. But before I go, here is a (rather dumb) picture to make Mohua happy:

Don't Seema, Brian and I look cute putting our heads close together and making peace signs and pouting? FRIENDS FOREVER!!!!