Ford the river? Hunt for food? Rebecca has Typhus. Rebecca has died. 

PAN KISSES KAFKA

Here is the story of my recent unexpectedly lengthy and bodily-fluid-soaked sojourn from St. Louis, MO, to see my parents in my hometown of Eugene, OR, with visual aids.

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(Henry and Emily are my names for the couple in the row in front of us on our very ill-fated second flight, from Denver to Eugene. I AM GETTING AHEAD OF MYSELF. They absolutely reeked of weed. I’m sure their real names were Amarynth and BlissDemon, but I can’t be too annoyed with them, because they spent four hours sandwiched between toddler rows. AHEAD OF MYSELF. THIS IS NON-LINEAR NARRATIVE OREGON TRAIL, ALL RIGHT, BITCHES? GET OFF MY BACK.)

I choose December, motherfuckers, because that is by far the best month to climb into a sealed disease vector, careen up to 35,000 feet, parch my membranes, and then wait to see if the weather the airline 100% knew was happening when…

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