Freezing on My Bike

Thanks MHSDG. Is that what they wanted me to say? Even though I'm not on stage, I still dream about it like its my job: The lights are on, the horns are blaring. I'm wearing a wig and staring wide eyed into a sea of darkness. What was my line again? Mrs. Faust is there in faded-black jeans. Mr. Ames...they are all there and I am thanking them for pointing me in the right direction and for hugging me when I was crying by the piano.

I'm riding my mom's bike down Market Street in downtown Lowell. It was sunny this morning, but now its dark and windy, and I'm cold despite the motion of my legs. I almost wish I was in Richmond, on Bell Isle, but who could I tell that to? These cities in these states are like high school crushes: you love them, and then you move on.

Besides, the humidity would crush me.

I would probably adopt a Pitbull mix named Diesel and we could hop from city to city. Or I could apply for an internship somewhere and learn how to be professional. I would wear a suit, drink bitch-beer, and comb my hair.

What kind of battle is this? In the end, will wistfulness conquer all? I know what feels right and easy, I'm scared of regretting some turn down the road. I don't know if I was born to sit still, or be quelled by daily operations. I'm a fighter, and a traveler. We're both fire signs, both born in July, and both ruby red on the inside.

One of these days I'll make some money
and buy myself those things that I want:
acrylic paints, acoustic guitar strings, a new bicycle seat
for my ride over to your house each night.

One of these days I'll look Mike Kinsella in the eyes and thank him for being so right.