After I paid my co-pay and got my prescription refill, I navigated the Walgreens parking lot, like a bumper car ride at the fair. The car radio was on an oldies station.
With a scowl that could scorch the tops of crème brûlée, I would stalk through the bar to the alleyway to glower outside until the song ended. Even the rotting potato peels and pools of stale beer were preferable to hearing it again.
I am free to find new horizons and make them mine. I am more than my bullies ever imagined and becoming more with each passing day. I refuse to let the past define me.
I couldn't escape the crush (in both senses of the word) the first time I heard it. I was dumped, pulled under and dragged disoriented across the sandy sediment of my adolescent existence. See My Baby Jive was excoriating.
I'm eating a cheap and nasty pizza – a fitting feed for a failed novelist. I’m watching The Panel. About three slices in they introduce a New Zealander called Bic Runga. I’m enraptured.
I thanked her for taking the trouble to find me and silently wondered if her seeking me out was a country-town courtesy, a form of hospitality that may not happen in the hustle and bustle and traffic of a city. I did not flatter myself to think she may have seen more in me all those years ago than I’d realised.
Red carnations mean the deepest of love. I would love it and care for it and it would be an eternal living symbol of my deep love for Adam and his love for his fans.
Tired. Burnt out. I want out. I don’t want to be here. I need something new. What’s next? No solid plans. Wing it. Improvise. Until the money runs out. Or until I get bored doing nothing.
As a ten year old I was quite oblivious to the meaning of Galveston – a cry out from an American soldier in Vietnam who is recalling happy memories back home while on the battlefront.
Save for the weeds, not much grows in our front yard. The soil is rubbish, almost literally. “What’s the plan?” my neighbour says cheerily, as I'm weeding.