Missy’s in the well, Missy’s in the well!
*author’s note: Unless you knew me before 1989, you are not allowed to call me Missy.
As I drove through the vastness of beige, I needed a bathroom break. I blew by the saloon and the biker bar, but stopped at a “rest area.” The asphalt was sticky and I of course promptly fell. The asphalt was hot and out of nowhere, Eleanor pulled a Lassie. She jumped out of the car, ran to one of the workers, who got me up before I suffered third degree burns.
Lest you think I am exaggerating, here is a photo of what is supposed to be a tree. In Arizona.
