Click Here to Avoid Nervous Breakdown
Dostoyevsky’s wife had to pawn her underwear to pay for his gambling debts. Me? My mother was a swimsuit model in the ’80s. So, that’s what I had to deal with growing up. It was an emotional deductible on my sudsy well-being, being dragged forthwith by so many just/unjust causes that I was complicit and unaware (at least not cognizant of any breech or lasting imprint this might be leaving on my poor immature subconscious life) that I could not/would not hold on to the last remaining wellsprings of my sink-and-or-swim tamed/untamed youth. Please, bear with me here, as I’ve got hyperbolic holds on my atrophied senses, come hard-won (or easier-lost?) through the beckoned reaches of pinched and puttered times.
So.
Then there we were, my friends and I, meandering through episodes of Different Strokes and Family Ties in the den, on the midnight-blue leather couch that was so covered in scratches and holes that it was pretty much left for dead by my parents who weren’t interested in having nice “adult” furniture again until their progeny had crawled through at least to a decent trade school or moved on to other quarters for good. They had no illusions about our future. None of us were anywhere near the top of our grade-school class, then. Failures from the get go. Yep. And there are sixty to seventy ways to slice our cordially lit situations, but, you know…
