The last twenty four hours have felt like an odd Roy Batty-esque misadventure across the upper Midwest. I stood outside the Pontiac Silverdome and felt the breeze across my face. I listened to the rantings of an elderly man at the confused looking employee of a Wendy's as he claimed to have inexact change and demanded another three cents. I ate in the nightmarishly awful Burger King in Battle Creek, Michigan, during which I was racially insulted, sat on a bench that fell directly to the floor, and heard the song Jesus to a Child by George Michael while using the disturbingly unclean men's restroom. I heard the vocal stylings of Dirty Harriet from a cassette tossed out of the window of a Trans-Am. I saw a thirty five year old Irish-Indian-American enjoy a 40 oz. bottle of Colt .45.
I slept the sleep of a nearly dead man.
Today, though, is a day that is now to be topped off with the sedateness of long readings and homework, of assignments and computer code to be written.