ApostropheNow is lost in time and space somewhere in Florida .....
It's 3 AM. I am a passenger.
Speeding down the highway. The truck weaves, and the "pokita kapokita" sound of the wheels hitting the reflectors in the lane dividers echoes in the drunken dream I'm having. I'm dreaming I'm falling down a long flight of stairs. And I have to piss. And I am drunk. Very drunk. I am a drunken passenger in a vehicle driven by my Dad. My Dad is driving drunk.
I open my eyes and it's so obvious that we're going to kill somebody I'm almost incredulous to the stark reality. I look at my Dad. And my Dad half turns to look at me. We have what I can only describe as a Ren And Stimpy moment of silence; comfortably idiotic yet totally familiar, it's-so-nice-to-be-with-you silence.
"You're weaving" ... I croak. "Wha?" says Dad. He weaves a little bit more.
Somehow, we find our way home. No cops stop us. No one honks their horn for us to take heed; not even an angry middle finger aimed in our general direction. It's as if we're floating on air (apart from the "pokita kapokita" sound of our wheels hitting the lane dividers). And no angels are responsible for this safe passage. It's not lucky. There's no reason we made it home. It's as if all that is right and just and logical in the universe has forsaken us for the evening. And maybe you don't get what you deserve. And maybe you don't get what's coming to you.....
The wilderness is calling me. "Fool"
Your pal, AN.
It's 3 AM. I am a passenger.
Speeding down the highway. The truck weaves, and the "pokita kapokita" sound of the wheels hitting the reflectors in the lane dividers echoes in the drunken dream I'm having. I'm dreaming I'm falling down a long flight of stairs. And I have to piss. And I am drunk. Very drunk. I am a drunken passenger in a vehicle driven by my Dad. My Dad is driving drunk.
I open my eyes and it's so obvious that we're going to kill somebody I'm almost incredulous to the stark reality. I look at my Dad. And my Dad half turns to look at me. We have what I can only describe as a Ren And Stimpy moment of silence; comfortably idiotic yet totally familiar, it's-so-nice-to-be-with-you silence.
"You're weaving" ... I croak. "Wha?" says Dad. He weaves a little bit more.
Somehow, we find our way home. No cops stop us. No one honks their horn for us to take heed; not even an angry middle finger aimed in our general direction. It's as if we're floating on air (apart from the "pokita kapokita" sound of our wheels hitting the lane dividers). And no angels are responsible for this safe passage. It's not lucky. There's no reason we made it home. It's as if all that is right and just and logical in the universe has forsaken us for the evening. And maybe you don't get what you deserve. And maybe you don't get what's coming to you.....
The wilderness is calling me. "Fool"
Your pal, AN.