You would not believe the sheer enormity of my testicles.

Upon first inspection, they really wouldn't seem like much. They are, however, two planets in a blissful stationary orbit around each other.

These are some seriously large cahones. Balls of brass? No thanks. Brass tarnishes. I've got some serious, heavy duty tungsten encasing my scrotum.

Yesterday I was wind on wheels. In 11 hours I made it from New York City to Elkhart, Indiana. But that's not why I'm amazing.

The blowout today occured a few miles before Gary, Indiana. I swore a little (GOD MOTHERFSCKING DAMMIT WHY THE FSCK NOW?) and went about the simple process of changing the tire: find tools, find jack, find spare tire, use jack to lift car, misplace lug wrench, find lug wrench, loosen bolts, get to special "anti-theft bolt", swear, lose bolt key, find bolt key, change tire, face Mecca, put everything back in its rightful place, watch with a renewed sense of irony as the state highway assistance truck pulls up.

So that was Indiana today. Around Illinois it really became apparent that the only proper term for the midwest in winter is "the Ghostlands of America". Mists were dancing on the road. A truck jackknifed in front of me, skidding at some impossible angle into the median. I sighed... sighed... until... adrenaline... into veins... I'M ALIVE! I'M A MAN!

This feeling continues into the subzero weather of Iowa as I watch the wind knock two cars together and then send them skidding off to opposite sides of the road. Ghosts are holding cocktail parties on the interstate. As I pass 31 (thirty-one!) skidded, abandoned, or overturned cars, one ditched Greyhound bus, a horizontal tractor trailer and an upside-down motorhome, I can't help but feel as though I'm a champion of the road, screaming through the expressway of the afterlife at 75 miles an hour, ready for anything. The winds pick up and I laugh. I can barely see the cars as I pass them. This is nothing. I am merely invincible.

I start to come down as I enter Omaha, Nebraska, my rest stop for tonight. Only 8 hours on the road, but I've got this taste in my mouth and a sudden pit in my heart and...

I just need to rest.

I'm tempted to find the number of Conor Oberst (of Bright Eyes fame) just to kill the time, but that would be a little weird (and he's not listed anyway). There's a badass comic shop here, but I get there just as they're closing. So it goes.

Still I feel as though I'm invincible. I spend most of tomorrow on deep Nebraska state roads, probably at a more sane rate of speed. Don't wish me luck, for I don't need it. Don't wish me the grace of God, for I already have it.

Wish me, however, some modesty, because I'm about a quart low, motherfucker.

Halfway to Reno, kids. It's not the destination: it's always the journey. Proof of this is the sunset that appears at just the right moment, turning a ground blizzard a brilliant orange, turning the road into foggy fire. I've felt more alive today than I have in years. This is tension and danger, and I can see why people get addicted to it so easily.

The real pisser about today, however, is I have this bed that's roughly the size of Alaska and no one to share it with. Seriously: the first three or four Everything chyx who can make it to Omaha tonight can crawl in. Hell, who am I to discriminate? Anyone in Omaha, I'm at a Clarion off of I-80, room 526. Limited time offer. Not valid with any other coupon. Void where prohibited. etc. etc. etc. forever and ever amen.