The signs all said, "Whitestone Bridge Delayed: Use Throgs Neck" and they looked like they meant it. Then it's in the toll line for that very bridge--the Whitestone, that Anthony says, "Shit, I was supposed to get gas."

The Jaguar, it tells you how many miles until you run out of gas. At that moment, waiting to get onto a delayed bridge, the little screen said, "24 miles."

Then that disappeared and a red light came on and the only thing the screen had left to say was, "Low Fuel."

We crossed the bridge blindly. Damn if you don't want to run out of fucking gas on the Whitestone fucking Bridge. Bridges adjacent to the city are scary enough to drive over these days.

We found gas in a small town that looked like something out of rural Rhode Island. Can't believe you can spit on the Whitestone Bridge from a small town like that. Quaint little homes from two centuries ago and it's the first exit off of one of the busiest bridges in the country. We had to drive almost a mile into town just to find a gas station! Aren't there more idiots like us that drive over congested bridges on no gallons of gas?

The good news is that we finally made it to the airport; apprehended Ryan for commentary recording tomorrow.

Tomorrow is also a Wednesday. I need to finish a story, do I ever. Think, adobes. That's right.

I'd work on it now, but I'm afraid that letters are unicorns at the moment. Whatever that means. I feel like I haven't slept since I was conceived. I want to lay down and I want to be asleep and I want to be asleep for twelve hours before the sun shining through the damn sunlights has turned our family room/bedroom into the afternoon oven that it turns into and I wake up in a sweat, aggrivated and unable to fall back asleep. Today, the room got up to 83 degrees. Ridiculous. Exactly what are the benefits of two radiating heat windows on the ceiling? Light schmight! Thomas Edison is so cool. He invented fake light, you know.

Um, goodnight now.

Let's Forget About the Adobe.