Nebraska roads are bad, but the speed limit is high. It’s as if they acknowledge the fact that all you want to do is get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. The grey ribbon of the interstate stretching between endless fields of green and gold, and it just. Won’t. Stop.

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Cornfields really are as scary as they make them out to be.

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Nebraska, smack-dab in the middle of the US, was a main artery of the Oregon Trail, that avenue for expansion and colonization of the west. The Platte river runs across it, as does the I-80 Interstate, and along that same river ran the horses of the Pony Express.

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I was driving across a farm when suddenly a double-take overtook me. Were those Llamas?