I broke away from the machine that tells me what to do next and scheduled a little play date with an old sweetheart, the Cadillac trail. This was no workout. Nobody was trained-like a dog. Straight up funsies. This was flexing singletrack know-how and can-do.
That is not to say that rubber wasn’t burned because the Espresso Love and the calcified righteous indignation of a Willie Loman bucking script; a man who has tired of politely excusing himself onto the ledgge– this is the atmosphere for a play date.
I went to have tea with the Death-Eaters.
The trail playgrounds were full of activity, and a few people gave me the opportunity to reclaim my humanity by communicating with intent and purpose. All that non-manic talking felt a little dusty in my mouth after a week of eyes rolled back in my head madness. The Titus jumped like a Red Pony. The trail was dusty and loose, a tunnel of green and not yet summer!
Junior Cottonmouth got caught out in the middle of a wide sandy section of trail and he was high-tailing his ass as fast as he could when I rolled up on him. He was looking embarrassed and sure he was done for certain. I passed and spun around as quick as I could stop to catch another look.
I lost him in the leaves and realized he had regained the upper hand.
Juancho
Nice.
almost like back when I cared.
I think its funny that even when you try not to give a shit you still write well. You’d loe to phone it in but you can’t. I dig that about you.
Why can’t I see typos before I post?
it doesn’t work that way for some reason.
“All that non-manic talking felt a little dusty in my mouth after a week of eyes rolled back in my head madness.”
Loved that line.
Back in school you were probably the kid who never had to study either and whipped something like this up ten minutes before it was due.
You are exactly correct. The more I try the worse it gets.
and thanks!