Weider than Woodchippers

There's something weird about Fargo.

I'm not talking about the abundant woodchippers in everyone's yards. It's something else.

None of the doors open right.

Fargo, North Dakota apparently exists on some particular latitude and longitude where every businesses' exterior door refuses to open without a fight. Perhaps Fargo is tilted just so it is at a perfect 45-degree angle to the Earth's axis, and therefore it nearly takes the jaws of life to get through every single goddamn door in the town.

When you are finally able to wrench a door open using two hands and a lot of hope, it closes so fast that it usually catches your foot in its ruthless grip.

This is every door here, people. The hotel, the stores, the bars, the Dairy Queen, the bingo parlour, and even the Kinkos.

Every door.

I can feel the Grim Reaper hovering over my shoulder. He waits as I approach a business and starts to giggle softly, so that it is but a whisper in the wind. Then, it gets louder as I pull and yank and groan. One of these days, he's going to swing his sickle as I attempt to enter an Applebees and that will be it for me. You can have the new skirt I bought at Target if you want...

it's super cute. g