The sound of New Mexico is black metal music blasting out of a lifted vintage El Camino or a shitty Honda Civic—depends on the driver. I saw more low riders in Santa Fe than expected but a dearth of shitty Hondas swarmed the streets of Roswell and through Ruidoso. On the main drag of Roswell, New Mexico, a towheaded blonde asked us from the window of his shitty sedan if we voted for Trump. From the sidewalk I’d mistakenly given him a hang ten sign which set him off—he stormed away when the light changed, a blistering 35mph, his death metal blowing out his shitty sedan speakers, whooping about the former president.
Earlier, the twenty-something cashier at the Roswell's McDonald's had handed me a super large cup on accident then apologized, telling me he just took a dose of [drug] and that his day was about to get really weird. He later ran to me with my receipt while I was taking a photo of an alien statue in the foyer, telling me my number was important.
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