Bearing Down the Interstate

The concaving space up in my rattletrap caboose of a head is filled with methamphetamine, and so I’m trying to extrapolate and explain my way out of it. This guy — the burly, hatchet-faced dude I’ve been rabidly motor-mouthing in the seat next to me — is asleep. I’ve literally talked him to sleep. Not even sure when he stopped listening, or if he ever was. So, well, now, at least, I’ve got time to myself on this here all-nighter Greyhound…