However, by the time I reach Post, something is coming out of the sky. It's indefinable. I think it's rain, but it's freezing on the windshield, and most likely, the road. Okay, I think, I can handle this. Just keep heading south. It'll stop.

I reach I-20 and it's no longer spitting at me. Small balls of ice are hurtling from the sky, bouncing off the Lude and off of the trucks blowing past me at 70 miles an hour. "Hey, I can't SEE! Can you back off a bit?!" I'm screaming. What the hell is this stuff? I'm from Texas but I have seen snow. And it's not this shape. And it's not just coming down, it's sticking. The sides of the road are turning white. I pull into a rest stop, and skate to the bathroom. Uh-oh.

There are signs along I-20 advertising "FOOD. GAS. LODGING. NEXT 3 EXITS." Thank God. I pull off and drive 30 miles an hour over the snow/ice/wintry mix through a town called Merkel. Food? Gas? Lodging? MY ASS. There's nothing in this nothing town. NOTHING. I pull reluctantly back onto the highway.

I'm talking to myself. I'm talking to God. I'm talking to THE CAR. "We're okay!" I tell the Lude. "We're okay!" And I turn down the stereo. As if that will help keep us on the road. I start praying to make it to Abilene. I'm doing a steady 45 on the highway and people are still flying past me. Old women and men in RVs are flipping me off. Again, people. I CAN'T SEE. Are YOUR tires sticking to the pavement? What pavement? Oh, that's right. THERE ISN'T ANY LEFT.

I do make it to Abilene but just far enough to stop at the Motel 6 right off the highway. Can I just say there's a reason the Motel 6 only costs $30 a night? There's not even a Yellow Pages, people. I have to call information on my cell phone to find the local pizza joint. And then, since it's the middle of an ice/sleet/snow/wintry mix storm, it takes two hours to get my pizza. And then, since I have nothing but six cable stations, one book and one cell phone (and I've talked to everyone I know…can't wait to see THIS bill) I eat four slices of pizza and go to bed.

The next morning I'm determined to get the hell out of Abilene. Back on I-20, where the late-night truckers have cleared some of the wintry mix from the highway, I get up to a steady 60 miles an hour. I also stop for Pop-Tarts and water. That way if I get stranded, I'll have the Pop-Tarts, water, a two liter of Dr. Pepper and half a pizza to sustain life.

Once I exit and start traveling down 183, 60 miles an hour is nothing but a dream. I crawl down the highway at 30 miles an hour for the next four lifetimes. Let me tell you, there are a lot of things that cross your mind as you're driving at the speed of molasses. Such as: Why do all hotel soaps smell the same? If if they're the same, why isn't it a better smell? How long would it take me to walk to the nearest farmhouse, if I walk at .3 miles an hour and the farmhouse is 10 miles away? How many calories are in the Pop-Tart I ate and will it be burned off completely as I walk to the farmhouse? Oh, and yeah, I'm so far out the middle of nowhere I have no cellular signal.

I reach Brownwood. Praise be to the Lude. This little firecracker has just traveled over 180 miles of snow and ice. Remember those new tires? Paying off in SPADES, my friend. My mother calls and tells me to stay put.

"You don't have anything to get back to here," she points out and I must admit, she's right.

Me and the Lude attempt to make it up a slippery driveway. The Best Western, my newest choice for luxury accommodations, is right across the street. The Lude is not pleased with the driveway, however, and I'm less pleased with the Mack truck headed my way. That's right, on the left side. The tires grip at the last moment, and we skid safely into a parking spot at the Best Western. Noon. Lunch. Drinks.

I spend the rest of my afternoon at the esteemed establishment known as Humphrey Pete's talking to the bartender, Triple B. (Mr. Innkeeper suggests I drive, through the snow and ice, to get ripped. I decide to walk, er, skate.) Triple B is a 30-year-old recovering alcoholic with a two-year-old girl who enjoys dating shows as much as I do. He also doesn't charge me for about half the 6 million Shiner Bocks I drink. Triple B and I get along famously.

After a nap in my lovely king-sized bed, it's time for dinner. As I'm getting ready to leave, I notice this sign on the mirror: "These towels have been put here for your convenience. Shortage and losses increase rates. Please do not take them." Look, I do not steal towels!

I'm lucky enough to visit Skillet's for dinner. Mmmmm. I once overheard someone say at a Skillet's: Internships can be emotionally draining. Big Guy and I almost fell out of our booth, we were laughing so hard. That silly girl didn't know what she was talking about, but I'll tell you, dining at Skillet's? THAT can be emotionally draining.

I finally make it home the next day around 3 p.m. Thank you for the tour of Texas, universe. I'm almost afraid to ask what you'll throw at me next.

-Shakira 03.01.03