80 Miles an Hour

I try not to miss a beat

But I’m always coming in late and going out quick.
From here to there to nowhere fast and free. Never a
second anymore to count the tiles on the ceiling or the
cigarettes in a day or the calories in a sandwich.
Time is tricky and trite but he sure makes
my life a living hell when the bell rings
or the alarm clock whines.

I used to take 40 minute showers.
Just to think.
Be alone with my thoughts for a second before running

out on them before my hair’s even dry.
80 miles an hour on the highway
never solved a goddamn thing.

Just pissed people off and provoked
them into getting in my way just to pass
the time.

I was never very good at keeping quiet.

Jumping on my parents’ bed on Christmas morning
slapping all four of my older siblings in the face trying to
get them to wake up. “I’ll do it! I’ll tell you what your presents are!”

My music is always loud.

My mom says she can hear me coming down the street. I told her,
you’ll always know when I’m here.

And my thoughts seem to camouflage into thin air, hours in
the car in traffic seem like minutes because I only stopped to
take a breath between measures.

Anthony knew what to call it.
He probably doesn’t remember. He was drunk at bar number 3 (or 4?) for Brittany’s
birthday. He said, “I’m not loud, I just have a demanding presence.”

But if you think I’m loud, you should meet Mike. Talking about people as they
walk by and I resist every urge I have to punch him in the side, and we argue back
and forth for what’s probably hours or days or months but it’s fun as hell, so who cares.

Stephanie said something to me the other day in Yogurtland.
Something that made a big fat smile dominate my face. I said,
“You’re like…totally my best!” (Excuse the valley accent!) and she said,
“Right? You’re like…the only person here. I mean I know there are other people
around but you’re the only person in the room.”

And I didn’t feel so inclined to stuff myself with things that were bad because
the good was just all around.

And we drove around cul de sacs for hours before we realized we
weren’t going anywhere.

“Pull yourself together, woman!” Brittany would say, witnessing all of
the mindless mishaps occurring in our everyday pointless problems and pleasant parking lot missions.

And Laura’s our getaway driver. Taking us away from the embarrassing
scenes of the crimes, making sure the music was loud and I never (we never)
Miss a beat.

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