Summertime

I noticed last night, while jamming with a buddy, that my voice has begun to take a more raspy tone. Now, I'm not sure if its the effect of the hardest hit a bong has ever given me, or if it's my mother's John Mellencamp obsession of my youth coming through (if that's the case, then I'm well on my way to becoming an chain-smoking wife-beater), or if it's reminiscent of Janis Joplin's pained voice she gives our fair season.

Ah, Summer. I mean, not quite yet. But, ah, the end of school. A set of what I assume are lesbian parents are sitting outside on the bumper of a Town & Country. Earlier they were bickering at Ian over how to fit a stand-up plastic drawer into the backseat. This really begs the question, is Ian the son of two lesbians? Ah, Summer.

Over Winter Break, I willed my ass off Skype to get Taco Bell. Taco Bell was closed, so I went to the gas station for my usual blueberry slushie and candybar. I found myself surrounded by flannel, which shouldn't have been all that uncomfortable for me except that these people were sporting the wool seriously. They awoke at 4 A.M. to be at work by 5 A.M. I smoked a cigarette outside the gas station, eagerly waiting for someone with whom I could discuss the Fleet Foxes.

Thus is the root of my problem with the coming season. I come from a parking lot town. Please, don't make me a target (Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga 1).

Bobdammit