excerpt
February 24, 2009
I felt like I was at an eighth grade dance. Alisha Keizer was leading Ryan Houghton out of the bathroom by the hand, after putting makeup on him. We were all jealous of her then, with her hair dusting back from her face, her small, pale fingers gripped around that brown hand as they walked in to some 90’s tune. But it was winter this time, and cold and dark, and I was being lead, following O’Connor’s back patch to the bar the west ha kept him away from for a year, while he was shuffling around with new found ambition before returning home and laying around like the rest of us, sullen. He was eager before he left. There are pictures of us from when my hair is still pink. He is wearing my hat, and giving a thumbs up, and I am laughing. Our teeth look white, and we look young, healthy and happy, tattooed and alive.
I was never satisfied, that was my problem. What the hell is your excuse?
