sac·cha·rine

According to a gas station attendant in rural Louisianna at four this morning tucked behind the counter and behind my Aleve, giant water bottle, and baggie and BBQ Frito twists, I talk like a valley girl.  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to apologize or high five her.  I opted for walking backward slowly instead.

… I think her dress is supposed to fan out from the convenient wind into a silhouette of the city-scape.  It’s gonna rule.

I fucking hate Photoshop.  And sore throats.  But not Bookends.  Thanks, S&G.