success

The 68’ Ford Bronco I am driving is hell on gas. The oversized tires, lack of aerodynamic engineering, and weight of the truck are costing me a lot of money. The gas gauge is as responsive as the speedometer. I have no choice but to keep driving and spending money I don’t have. Gas is $3.66 per gallon.

I look to my left and see a sign, “Gainesville 58.” 58 miles to Gainesville Florida. I am wearing mesh athletic shorts. The wind from the topless truck and 54 miles per hour are wafting the smell from my crotch. It seems to have a direct path to my nose. It smells like terrible pussy. The girl I fucked last night did not have that bad of a smelling twat, but as time has past and her juice was not cleaned off, it clearly festered. The smell was unbearable and I became disgusted with myself. I had to find a gas station with a private bathroom.

This is the first time I have been on this road since the summer of 99’, so I have no idea where the next gas station is. I can feel anxiety setting in. Anxiety intensified because of last nights drunk. Certainly, I will find a jiffy store soon, wash my cock, buy a fountain diet coke, and get back on the road. My mind knows this to be true, but I can still not hold off the anxiety. If I would not have drunk the extra 4 whiskeys, I could curb the anxiety, but not now.

My mind starts to wander. I think about my job, dad, sister, girls, gambling. Each thought is rapid and short.

There’s a shell station. It is a small station that certainly has a private bathroom and one that I will have to request a key for. I pull in, next to a pump, but don’t get gas. I go inside and walk to the counter. The clerk is fat, sweaty, and unattractive. I ask for the bathroom key. He hands me a 3 foot long PVC pipe, with a hole drilled in one end, a shoelace through the hole, and a key tied to the shoelace. It is a ridiculous measure taken by store owners to ensure the key will not be lost or stolen. I plan on not giving the key back, to prove that regardless of the huge apparatus you attach to this key, it is never truly safe. I walk around the side of the building, see the bathroom, and unlock the door. It is disgusting. There are pupes all over the toilet, wadded toilet paper on the floor, and in the trash can. There are shit splatters on the back lip of the toilet. I want to vomit. The wadded tissue makes me wonder if any of them were used to wash pussy juice off of someone’s cock. I look at the paper towel dispenser and realize it is empty. That explains why so many tissues were used. Washing this cock with toilet tissue will be a gross chore. The tissue will deteriorate from the water and friction. It will form little filthy paper beads that will lodge them selves in my pubic hair. Fuck this is gross. I wet the tissue, pull down the front of my athletic shorts and start swabbing. I was right. The tissue makes a big mess. I wipe down everything below my belly button. I throw the used, gross looking tissue on the floor. This bathroom doesn’t deserve proper disposal.

As I exit the bathroom, I realize I won’t be able to steal the key if I want a fountain drink. Stealing the key is more important. I’ll get a drink later.

I get into the Bronco, start it, and pull away. Success. The key and its PVC protector are mine. After 400 yards, I throw the key to the side of the road. I see it land in a sandy patch and kick up a little dirt. Someone will find it and wonder, “why the fuck is this tiny key attached to this huge pipe.” Most likely, a dumbass will find it.