Now there's a title. That's something that speaks to me. And it fucking better be, it feels like my heart's about to explode. Not in the romantic way either. In the tremors through my chest kind of way, whatever that's supposed to mean. Am I worried? No. It's a good feeling, like hearing the kettle whistle, so I'll go with it. And I'll turn the music up real loud and sing so that my voice shakes and cracks and I'll probably feel it in the morning. That's how you know it's good driving music. It puts the life back into the pale winter skin. It pricks it like a plucked chicken, and inside that shifty teeter-totter tips towards a warm glowing mania.
There's certain things I remember. And they're certainly not short term. I'll blame the marijuana, but I'll thank it too. No need to remember everything. It's natural selection. Darwinism. Survival of the essential. The important. I don't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday (well, actually I do because I've only got a few good recipes up my sleeve and yesterday's was bacon pancakes), but that doesn't matter. It fades. I let it go. What doesn't slip gets clearer over time. Crisper. Maybe not crisper. No. Prettier. More beautiful. Something begging to shoot from my fingers so I oblige. Here's what matters: a title. A short point too. I spouted over dinner and tried to hide the shaking. It was about my father. He's a good man. He knew what a parent was. I think. No, that's not right. Everyone knows what a parent is. Everyone's got an idea in their head of it. I'm glad I'm the product of his (although I'm not entirely sure if he's satisfied). But hey, he always told me life wasn't fair so maybe he had that coming. Laughingly, of course.
