softimpossible:

American Roadtrip Gothic

You are driving down a highway. To your left is a McDonald’s and a gas station. To your right is a Wendy’s. You exit onto another highway. To your left is a McDonald’s and a gas station. To your right is a Wendy’s. You exit onto another highway. To your left is a McDonald’s and a gas station. To your right is a Wendy’s. You exit onto another highway.

You are driving through the Midwest. All you can see is corn. Occasionally you think you see eyes in the fields, but it’s probably your mind playing tricks on you. Probably. You look down at your watch and notice that it has been three hours. You look up and still, there is corn. Two hours later and still, there is corn. There is nothing but corn. There is only corn.

Your are driving through the South. There are signs everywhere, signs crying “we are all damned” and “hell is upon us.” You do not know if this is normal and are afraid to ask. On every street there is a church. At every house there is an American flag, waving in nonexistent wind. There are mothers working in their gardens. They all turn they’re heads at the sound of your car driving by. All their faces are exactly the same. You stop at a small restaurant before you leave. You ask the waitress for a burger and unsweetened tea. “Unsweetened tea!?” She cries, confused. “Unsweetened tea?” Her voice becomes deeper. “Unsweetened tea.” She intones to the kitchen. When your order arrives, it’s a burger and sweet tea.

You are driving through a city. You notice there seems to be a lot of art students. Many carry canvas bags and backpacks, but all of them have dyed hair. You look around again, and you notice that everyone has dyed hair, ranging from bright reds to deep violets. You cannot find any browns or blondes. They all have colorful hair. They are all art students. You look into your rearview mirror. Your hair is bright blue. “I’m an art student.” You whisper in horror.

You are driving west. You do not know how long you have been driving, only that you are driving west. There is so much traffic. You think you have spent days on the highway, staring at the car in front of you. You can’t be sure. The people are a strange mix of hurried and unbothered. You try to ask for directions, but the answer you receive is in another language, for all you understand it. You ask another person and they explain in a tongue you understand, and they tell you to make a right turn at In-N-Out. You look around you. There are 7 different In-N-Outs just within the radius of your eye sight. You begin to cry.