Popsicle Sticks

I read this article in GQ and the journalist was so fucking great, snarky and poetic, and he mentioned driving a Swedish beater down his college row, awaiting a big mac as hot and rancid as Ice Cube's lyrics. I was in the bath tub, chuckling to myself. Said journalist was remarking upon something pedestrian. We've all been there: stuffed into a janky backseat, seatbelt tight across the chest, salty air whipping through the night, laughter sending the tiny car up and into the night before it races towards the inevitable hamburger at 3 am. It's naughty and it's fun. The glee is in the idiosyncratic detail that makes experience yours and I was happy to see a journalist that delighted in his own chaos and humdrum experience. I'm back in Chicago now, walking down the same pavements I've always walked, and I'm hungry for something spontaneous. But I'm missing it. Right now, as I sit here, kids are humping in the park, senior citizens are digging for gold, rabbits are running, the trees are rotting from inside out, the wind is blowing, the world is turning. I think the point is to see yourself imprinted by every experience, a house of paper/ your words all over me.