MSc, USA: Grad Students Take America, Pt. III

I’m at the second Laundromat of the day; it’s becoming quite an exciting theme. The first one closed while my stuff was still in the wash and I was outside reading a book (a graphic novel about a top floor apartment, though it didn’t flow very well because every chapter started the same, with “Dear Penthouse.” But it was quite modern since there were floors everywhere; no carpets. On a related note, when they let me back inside to take my clothes out of the wash there was a pair of pink panties sitting on top. Suspicious. I was about to complain to the owners, but they didn’t seem like the caring type. And it turns out they kinda fit me, so I let it slide.

Unrelated to that, a friend wants me to ask if lace shrinks in the dryer?

Back to the American Adventure. I believe we were hitting the road for Shenandoah National Park in Virginia; a short stop for a hike on the way to North Carolina. Unfortunately it was a pretty dreary mix of fog, rain, and cold. It was so cold in fact, that you just couldn’t wear enough socks.


Life hack: Now you know what to do with that lone sock that gets stranded in the laundry.

We hiked around for a while and it got a little colder and rainier, until eventually the sock wouldn’t even stay on. We didn’t see much wildlife, but I found five bucks! They were grazing in the woods. But no pictures turned out because Cobra had his eyes closed in every one of them. Maybe it was bad timing; maybe I was holding the camera and still hadn’t put my clothes back on. WE’LL NEVER KNOW.


Cobra, worrying about seeing other varieties of snake. Somewhere in there is a deer. I don’t claim to be a great photographer. I don’t claim to like clothes either.

We hopped back in the car, cranked the heat, let everything return to normal size, then kept on driving to our next stop (much like you do when driving). I forget the name of the place, but it reminded me of a place that I forgot the name of. We found a Worst Western hotel for the night, half-assed it in the closet gym, murdered some recovery pizza, and settled in for some open-beer and shut-eye. Then right before bed Cobra thought it was just unacceptable that we hadn’t ever heard of “Mr. Hands,” so we spent a good five minutes stoking the nightmare flame with grainy videos and strange fascination. (I know I’ve piqued your interest, but really, please don’t follow up on that curious tendency of yours.)

Good night.

Nay, bad night.

Neigh, ew.


The kids say goodnight too.