sound and fury (signifying nothing)

This post is part PSA, part bookmark.

Doesn’t this look great?

It’s a rainbow cake. Perfect for a celebration of fabulousness or really just any get-together. The drab color of the frosting really makes the interior colors pop.

I’m fascinated by this concept, even though it’s as simple as food coloring in white cake. I love color like Bob Ross loved happy little trees.

Credit goes to Aleta at Omnomicon, Goons With Spoons at SomethingAwful, and of course, my friend and pal, StumbleUpon, the greatest Firefox add-on ever. (The hell with Adblock, I can ignore flash pictures perfectly well on my own, thank you.)

I’m in a sweatshirt that says Wisconsin.

Driving a car with plates from Georgia.

Heading back to North Carolina.

But I grew up in South Carolina.

I was born in Connecticut.

I left some teeth in a 7-Eleven parking lot in Michigan.

And I’m in Virginia, in what seems to be the methamphetamine capital of the United States.

Time to hit the road.

… although preferably not to Jesus.

I suppose it ought to be noted somewhere that I very nearly died tonight. It was the closest I’ve come to the instant I will eventually shuffle off this wretched planet – that I know of, anyway.

I seem to have this affliction when it comes to mountains: if I can see ‘em, I gotta be in ‘em. I don’t necessarily need to scale them by hand like Uncle Joey; a drive through and a scenic overlook will sate my urge.

This week I’m staying in Harrisonburg, Virginia for work. Not only am I in the Shenandoah Valley, right smack up against the Appalachians, but the center I’m working in features a fantastic view to the west. For the past couple days, West Virginia’s been taunting me. “I’m another state you haven’t been to,” it says. “You’ve got that big old car and gas to play around with.” Am I going to ignore the state that touts itself as “Wild, Wonderful” in favor of another night of hotel internet and takeout? I think not. It’s only half an hour away, anyway.

So it’s a beautiful but chilly evening and I’m driving my rented Pontiac through snow flurries, listening to Ray LaMontagne and thinking about how perfect it all is. The car handles well, even though it’s an SUV; the music is just perfect for the mood, the time, the topography. I get to the summit with no trouble, get out, stretch, look around, and decide that now that I’ve been in West Virginia, my life, or at least my week, is complete.

Coming back down the mountain, I get stuck behind an 18-wheeler.

Figures I would, because at this point I’m actually kind of hungry; I’ve worked my ass off, and the granola bar I snorfed during my 20-minute lunch break is a distant memory. Low gear is too slow and Intermediate is too fast. I switch between the two, mentally apologizing to my engine and brakes. Two other cars come up behind me, so I pull off to let them pass, because even though my rearview has some sort of magic glare-reducing property, I hate having a line of cars behind me (even if it isn’t necessarily my fault).

When we finally get to where it’s level and there are passing zones, I put it back into D and overtake the panel van in front of me. The yellow dash seems to continue on forever, so I try to pass the sedan directly behind the truck, but when I pull out, I realize they’re too close together. I punch it. The passing zone runs out. I top a rise and my luck runs out.

Almost.

I whip back into the right lane what feels like inches ahead of the truck and continue to fly down the road, paying no mind to Virginia’s draconian speeding enforcement. There’s a metallic taste in my throat and my heart is going triple-time. I think about the people in those two oncoming cars, who could have been killed, and how wasteful and stupid and lonely it would be to die in the boonies of Virginia.

I realize that it’s this: this is why I can’t have nice things.

I make it back to town without event. (Obviously.) I call the boyfriend, because I need to reassure myself that I’m okay just by hearing his voice, and in it, how glad he is to hear mine. I debate telling him what happened because, while the Indy fan in him would have found my driving badass, as my friend, companion, and ostensibly protector, he would have been either worried or furious.

I drink a glass of milk, thank God for my reflexes and a powerful engine, and reflect on how it seems that any good adventure story always has some sort of adrenaline-fueled moment in it somewhere.