It’s 1988. I’m nine years old. I’m in my parents’ Oldsmobile, sitting with sweating thighs on its maroon velour back seat, lap belt loosely fastened, dead center, laid bare before the panorama of the review mirror. Mick Jaggar is crooning on am radio, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.” It’s neither parent driving. It’s my sister. She’s singing along, hair blowing in the breeze created by her rolled-down window, and she casually puffs on a Marlboro Red. I look up and into that rearview mirror and see that her eyes are looking at me and she has a peculiar expression appearing on her face. I don’t know where we’re going and my best guess is that we’re not going anywhere in particular and, even if we are, I am just along for the ride.
Fitting and Delicious to Lose Everything
Fitting and Delicious to Lose Everything
Fitting and Delicious to Lose Everything
It’s 1988. I’m nine years old. I’m in my parents’ Oldsmobile, sitting with sweating thighs on its maroon velour back seat, lap belt loosely fastened, dead center, laid bare before the panorama of the review mirror. Mick Jaggar is crooning on am radio, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.” It’s neither parent driving. It’s my sister. She’s singing along, hair blowing in the breeze created by her rolled-down window, and she casually puffs on a Marlboro Red. I look up and into that rearview mirror and see that her eyes are looking at me and she has a peculiar expression appearing on her face. I don’t know where we’re going and my best guess is that we’re not going anywhere in particular and, even if we are, I am just along for the ride.