So . . . I made it to Virginia Beach . . . without any major cuts or abrasions . . . and still with the semblance of sanity intact. Although how much sanity can be attributed to a person who consciously considered the character development possibilities of creating an imaginary friend to accompany one on the last half of one’s trip. Does that even make sense? I didn’t think so. Sigh. I refrained from the imaginary friend, however, yay for me!!!
I did get pulled over in West Virginia. The best way to start one’s trip. Less than two hours in and !what do you know! there’s a flashing blue light that I am sure is not for me. But it is. And there’s a sheriff walking up next to my car and informing me that I am going over the speed limit by 11 miles per hour. Okay, funny, my cruise control was set at 9 over. Luckily for me, I did not get a ticket. Jesus and I had some real quality time, however, as I watched the officer write something out, and we ascertained together that if that was an actual ticket that he was writing . . . I was turning around and going home. Mainly because I don’t have enough money for a ticket AND quality Cori time.
Not that Cori is expensive, by the by . . . oh sigh. I don’t think that I can explain this all properly, so I’m going to depart this topic as quickly as possible before I lose my cheap friends.
I got my hair trimmed before coming here to VA Beach . . . and I HATE IT!!! It’s really cute and fluttery and scraggly and cool but it’s driving me nuts. It doesn’t curl the same, the front looks funny, the back looks cute . . . it’s in my eyes. I feel like Meg Ryan. Unfortunately I weigh like eighty pounds more. But I’m wearing cute pants from GAP.
Katie Turner informed me the other day that I had changed dramatically and did not any longer seem to be the innocent homeschooler I arrived at Asbury as. Funny, I’m not. The insinuation, however, was that at least my coolness factor has improved. Uh . . .no. Have you talked to anyone recently? I’m not any cooler than I ever was, I’m just more comfortable, and my personality is better defined. Hey, I’ve had 3 extra years to define me. And I don’t think that pants from the GAP make me who I am, thankfully.
But now I’m going to go. We’re supposed to be headed to Panera (*cough*Bread*cough*) and we still don’t know how to get there. Sigh. I love Cori.