Instead of carrying a backpack loaded with a pound of beef jerky, 6 packs of ramen, and a bed sheet down into the depths of the grand canyon, I found myself sitting in a car driving between St. George and Provo for the second time in less than 24 hours with two cheese burgers sitting in my gut. They were depression burgers, acquired from In-N-out. Nothing perks me up quite like greezy slabs of meat sliding down my gullet.
Apparently, the Universe smote the Havasupai tribe with a rather hefty flash flood, which wiped out every wigwam and swept away all the stray dogs in the valley. Dice and poker chips are floating their way to Mexico as we speak.
Actually none of that is true. Except for the part about the flood making Havasupai inaccessible. Also, stray dogs may have perished. But the point is, instead of loving my life and sleeping on a flotation device with a sheet, I am angrily nestled in my bed. It would appear that the Universe was apparently confused about the time frame in which I would be arriving, and attempted to kill me a bit too early. The day was right, just not the time.
Nice try, Universe.
Now, my fingers smell like the beef jerky I consumed on the car ride home (after the hamburgers) instead of smelling like the beef jerky I ingested upon the trail. I find that whenever my fingers smell of something obnoxious or disgusting, I can't help but continually sniff at them. Sometimes I pretend like I am scratching at my nose, put really I am just seeing what my fingers smell like.
What is the matter with me.