kalischild

I want an International Harvester Scout.
You know the one. Square as a brick with tire treads you could fit your fist in. No soft top. No hard top. No damn top at all. I want to take this rusted, dusty primer-gray fuck-of-a-truck straight down the coast; 2 quarts of 1921 reposada, and a cooler full of Coronas and limes. A couple of steaks, shrimp, some tortillas and a fucking hibachi. Ministry and Motorhead and Tool for the daytime, Massive Attack and Tricky for the night. I want a shotgun and an axehandle behind the seat. Driving all night, crossing the border under a fat blue mexican moon. Reach the goddamn tip of this falling-into-the ocean coastline, and fine a pure stretch of beach; sugar white sand and the sun-bleached bones of gulls. I want to lie in the sun and tell you all my stories and lies, and listen to yours. I want to lay stretched on a white linen beach chair, sipping Corona while you tell me everything you've loved, and everything you hated. We would drive to the end of the world, and wait for the world to end. Drinking cheap beer, and good tequila. Laughing and fighting in the sand. Sunset and margaritas and Billie Holliday at the end of the world.

Fuck T.S. Eliot and the white flannel trousers he rode in on.

I will wear a black cowboy hat, and walk upon the beach.

I would dare to eat the fucking peach.

But I'd offer it to you first.