Overshare

I believe in the overshare. I believe in that nexus of vulnerable admission that leaves us naked and scared. I believe that it changes things for the better but can also burn down a house. Each scattered remnant of dignity picked up from a bedroom floor before dawn, each long pause following a non-sequitur confession, are trophies of real life. Memories that make a person cringe can be medals signifying chances taken. All of us awkward children need help and time to learn the ropes but we're never given enough of either. Slip through the fingers of your own hands and run free.


tags

(no subject)

Twelve remote controls, one round of deep-sea charades, two hours of zero gravity aerobics, and one kick-ass funeral later, we’re taking the curves way too quick in my dad’s old car. I have two beehives in the back seat but we’re smoking enough to keep them at bay. Their buzzing is mixing in with the roar of my thoughts. The engine sounds like a percussion instrument for the devil.

I figure we’ll pull some sort of Thelma and Louise but it’ll be more Thomas and Larry and there won’t be any movie unless you count the security camera footage. What the heck, right? Why not? We both have wings, after all. Although his are made of leather and mine are white. Other than that, bank tellers can hardly tell us apart.




tags