The Seventy Three (OR: When It's Gone Away)

Well that was quick.

So about one hour, 75 miles, and twenty-some-odd songs in, my fuel pump decided to stop working. As in, my accelerator pumped, but it wuddint pumpin' nothin'. I coasted on up to the top of the exit ramp, flipped on the blinking lights, and proceeded to march on into despair.

There are only a surprisingly few moments in life when you feel more isolated than you do when sitting in your broken-down car in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a tow truck that feels like it'll never show.

After two hours of waiting on SR 73, and an hour-long ride in a tow truck up 71, I'm home. I'm not happy about it, but I'm home.

Bowling Green, I'll be home soon enough. Just a little later than any of us wanted.