Kind a funny how sometimes all you need for music is the Damen bus stopping and starting every twenty five minutes outside your open window. I imagine myself in leggings, working for a newspaper, long, straight black hair, red plastic glasses that take up half my face. I'm 24. I used to take ballet. I grew up in Virginia. I have a baby grey hound. My mother invented the Thesaurus. I've been to Rome. I didn't like it.
My real mother will be 70 this August. I've lost track of whether or not the east coast hates her. It's easy for me to forget that they've fostered some sort of routine with her the past 14 years. They have that luxury of time. I'm sixteen when it comes to my mother, and probably the rest of the east coast. I seem to have separated three major events from around that time, and crowned them all as the last time I saw her. Even though I know I've seen her at least a dozen times since. Even shared a bed with her, pretended to be asleep while she kissed my hand--drama queen. One; sixteenth birthday on Longwood Drive, fried chicken and ice cream cake. Two; checking her into the nursing home, stopping for chicken nuggets. Three; visiting her with Debby, brought a cranberry muffin from Java. Debby cried. She was clearly much better, and that ironically, as usual, made a huge mess of things.
But, the Damen bus runs northbound, or southbound, nothing in between. So, we don't really have to worry about any of that right now. And as much as I'd like to rescue a grey hound, I would never risk upsetting matchbox's bladder.