Well the dashboard melted, but we still have

Well the dashboard melted, but we still have the radio, so we decided to go on an adventure.

The radio played facemelting metal and our faces spilled into el puddle del dashboard on the car mat. Our PT Cruiser's flame decals compounded the problem as we sped to El Diablo's

Secret Taco Compound on a nameless highway past the Calle del Duarte. Our faces melted, the car radio snowed into our minds, the road evaporated, the flames made bird shadows, then

I wondered how much Jimmy had slipped in my drink, because what the hell was happening? At that moment, I vowed never to carpool to a party again, especially when the invitation

was nonexistant and, for that matter, so was the car. So there I was, stumbling and bleary along Hwy 61 in the dark, the moss dripping a canopy over my head. Legend has it that

highway 61 actually takes you to Mulholland drive, if you drive over all three I-405 overpasses. But trying to do that in the night, by foot was a mistake. Instead I ended up in

Mount Isa at a truck stop. Mount Isa is in far north Queensland so I must have been smuggled into Australia illegally by people smugglers. I wondered how to get back to

wherever it was that Paul McCartney and John Lennon told me to go. They'd told me, repeatedly to get back, but they were sort of vague about it. Now I'm really lost.

"You were never lost," my mother's ghost smiled softly. "You are my Runaway Bunny."