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


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.


(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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