Tuesday, March 5, 2013


Yes, I've beaten that phrase to a pulp.
This weekend, I got to go visit a dear friend, Megan, in Wichita, Kansas. We drove through the Flint Hills, went to see the northern lights (...at the children's museum), had the best chai lattes in town, hung out in an old antique emporium, checked out a place that sold both "chicken poo chapstick" and "clean-as-shit soap," had great sushi (we had the sexy roll, the playboy roll, and a roll that was literally in flames), and went to a hockey game...where a guy was knocked out within the first 30 seconds and one of us got sick.

When we were checking out the Guardian of the Flames statue of a giant American Indian this morning, however, we realized we had no photo evidence that I ever went to visit her. It took us a few attempts (and by "us" I obviously mean "me"):


Thank heavens for small mercies Instagram filters.

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