February 23, 2015

I woke up strapped to a hospital bed this morning.

February 22, 2015

The day had started like every other Saturday they’d spent together for the last thirty-seven years.

See, they remembered to bring acid, but not water, so I kind of figured it wasn’t really a necessity, you know?

I’d never pass up the chance to take in New England’s illustrious foliage while pigging out on my mom’s couch.

Then he said, “Great legs. What time do they open?”

My father’s car always smelled like loose tobacco and freshly ground coffee.

She painted. She took photographs. Wrote poetry. Sang. Laughed. Danced.

I do not look like a damn rodeo clown! You know, I really liked this look, but it has her feeling like I’m a stalker rapist.

It lulled her to sleep at night with its rhythmic ticking. It was all things to her and it was all things to me.

Now, can I please have a rum and coke and a big old cheeseburger, medium rare?