Throwback: Road Trip to Chicago or How I Almost Killed My Boyfriend.

I am getting ready for another road trip to Chicago to visit my manfriend's family. Since I am currently unable to focus on anything besides packing,and planning ways to kill him at hour 12 when he starts cry/singing the song "Tiny Dancer", I thought I'd leave you guys with a throwback blog about this same situation. Enjoy.


There is something relationship-affirming about taking a road trip with someone. Maybe it's because you have no way out.

Here I am, nearly 500 miles away from home passing through some hick-ass town that has no cell reception, and more than likely no indoor plumbing, and I have to hope that he will not kick me out of the car after listening to me reenact my Twitter feed for the last 3 hours.

That's trust.

I don't talk about my significant other on here very often (primarily because I'm not entirely sure I won't be trading him up for a newer model soon), but his entire family lives in Chicago, which means we take the 18-hour trip at least once a year.

Every year after the labor-like excursion we swear we'll fly. We'll take a train. We'll fucking teleport. Anything other than spending a full day in our car, which is the automobile equivalent of a studio apartment with a bathtub in the kitchen. But our overall poverty makes us forget, and every year we pack ourselves and our 80-pound English bulldog into out two-door sardine can and get on the road.

The first few hours aren't bad. We laugh. We sing. We talk. We catch up in a way that two full-time jabs prohibit. But something happens along the way--about hour six. There is a shift. A change of energy--that takes two seemingly reasonable adults, who like each other and turns them into maniacs. It's like a mother-fucking Real World reunion. We are carnivorous. It's Hunger Games set in a Toyota  Yaris.

HIM: Change the music. If I have to listen to Adele start her period one more time, I'm going to kill myself.

ME: (turns up music) Don't worry, I will kill you myself if you ever FUCKING TALK ABOUT ADELE LIKE THAT AGAIN!!!

It's at this time when my hatred for him as at an all time high, I have to trust.

I have to trust that if I get out to pee/catch herpes from a truck-stop restroom, that he will not sell me to the first truck driver he encounters for a souvenir keychain. I have to trust that he will not run us into the side of a mountain just so I will stop asking him about his high-school girlfriends. I have to trust that he will not turn into Chris Brown after listening to me sing the Wicked Soundtrack through the entire state of Kentucky.

You all know I like to give horrible relationship advice, but here is the best advice I will ever give anyone questioning their relationship. Take a road trip. If both parties come back alive, then it's solid.

We made it to Chicago, by the way. But next year, we're teleporting.

Will Marco Rubio's Perfectly Coifed Hair Win Him the VP Ticket?

There is so much stupid in the news today that I have no clue where to even begin.

Eeny. Meeny. Miney. Mormon.

Okay, I guess we'll start with the most dry-humpable former Mormon: Marco Rubio. 

Have you heard of him? Yeah, I assumed so. The Republican Party hasn't been this excited since the advent of Grindr.

I mean look at him. He's beautiful. He's young. He's charismatic. He's like a Cuban Barack Obama, without all that tolerance nonsense. And Mitt Romney is ready to make him his VP.

"Marco Rubio is being thoroughly vetted as

part of our process." -Mitt Romney 

I  can only assume this means Romney is going to give Rubio his letterman jacket and ask him to go steady.

Hungry Eyes.

To be honest, I'm a little nervous about this possible pairing. 


Rubio is a Jr. Senator from my state and has a pretty nasty track record when it comes to women's rights (Rubio wrote the bill that would give employers the right to deny contraceptive care based on moral objection.) That type of far-right crazy mixed with whatever "it" factor he has, might actually win Romney some votes. 

Here's hoping there are pictures of him dressed as Lady Gaga out there somewhere. 

Moving on.

Samuel Wurzelbacher is in the news, or Joe the Plumber as he's better known.


Wurzelbacher is running for the Ohio House.


Oh, and he thinks the Holocaust wouldn't have happened if only the Jews had access to assault rifles. 

Yep. He loves America. And guns!

Finally, my state's governor, Rick Scott is making headlines.

Why you ask?

Oh, he's just getting Florida sued.

The Lawsuit filed Tuesday claims that the governor is in violation of the Voting Rights Act because of his attempt to purge suspected non-citizens from Florida's voting rolls.

Of the 2,700 Floridians on the "purge list" 82 percent were people of color.

This comes on the heels of other moves, such as cutting early voter hours and voter registration drives, that critics suggest are aimed at lowering minority and student participation in the presidential election.

Nice one, Ricky.

Where are the Zombies when we need them, Florida?

Road Trip to Chicago or How I Almost Killed My Boyfriend.

There is something relationship-affirming about taking a road trip with someone. Maybe it's because you have no way out. Here I am, nearly 500 miles away from home passing through some hick-ass Tennessee town that has no cell reception and probably no indoor plumbing and I have to hope that he will not kick me out of the car after hearing me reenact my Twitter feed for the last three hours.

That's trust. 

I don't talk about my significant other on here very often (primarily because I'm not entirely sure I won't be trading him up for a newer model soon), but his entire family lives in Chicago, which means we take the 18-hour trip at least once a year. 

Every time after the labor-like excursion we swear we'll fly. We'll take a train. We'll fucking teleport. Anything other than spending a full day in our car, which is the automobile equivalent of a studio apartment with a bathtub in the kitchen. But our overall poverty makes us forget the hellacious experience, and every year we pack ourselves and our 80-pound English bulldog into our two-door sardine can and get on the road.

The first few hours aren't bad. We laugh. We sing. We talk. We catch up in a way that two full-time jobs prohibit. But something happens along the way. About hour six. There is a shift. A change of energy. That takes two seemingly reasonable adults, who like each other, and turns them into maniacs. It's like a mother-fucking Real World reunion. We are carnivorous. It's the Hunger Games set in a Toyota Yaris.

Him: Change the music. If I have to listen to Adele start her period one more time, I'm going to kill myself.

Me: (turns music up) Don't worry, I will kill you myself if you ever FUCKING TALK ABOUT ADELE LIKE THAT AGAIN!!!

It's at this time, when my hatred for him is at an all time high, I have to trust. 

I have to trust that if I get out to pee and/or catch herpes from a truck-stop restroom, that he will not sell me to the first truck driver he encounters for a souvenir keychain. I have to trust that he will not run us into the side of a mountain just so I will stop asking about his high-school girlfriends. I have to trust that he will not turn into Chris Brown after listening to me sing the Wicked soundtrack through the entire state of Kentucky. 

You all know I like to give horrible relationship advice, but here is the best advice I will ever give anyone questioning their relationship: Take a road trip. If both parties come back alive, then it's solid. 

We made it to Chicago, by the way. But next year, we're teleporting.