No one to drive the car (words and images)

For the record, my mom is not a bitch. She is an awesome mom and an awesome person. I'm pretty much the bitch of the family.

and,
I love love love my apartment in Syracuse. I'm psyched to live here and work here and play here.

and,
how.

Long Angel

You rest your arm on the passenger
seat back and anyone rides shotgun
at 3 a.m. The night fills the night.

John Lennon morphs into Justin
Timberlake into Gandhi, Buddha,
Rainer Maria Rilke.

They are all your private
angels. The world is swollen with angels
who keep you. Even with all the wrong

choices you make. Driving on no sleep
in two days and NoDoze. One glass of red
wine. In New Hampshire you smile.

You see NewJersey beyond the trees. You
depend on the angels to breathe for you.
to promise you’ll make it.

This agreement pursues terrifically.
You drive until no other minute
ever existed and there is no

great divide between that which past
and that which may. Soon light
comes. With it other cars, trucks come.

They too make good angels – surrounding
you with some silent unbreakable trust code.
After you erase the mass turnpike,

the sleepers come out for work. The road
milks sap and holds you
in Fairfield, Connecticut, dirty like love.

You realize, kid, you are really going somewhere.
and it isn’t fun anymore. Nobody rides
shotgun who wants to take the wheel.

The George Washington Bridge – the
mammoth chaos of it all makes you
feel like a suffering goldfish. It spits you hard

into Dirty Jerz, where the angels are disgusting
as nicotine, or worse. You won’t make it all the way
without cigarettes. It’s not only your past,

It's your future too. And you know it so
completely that you may as well not live it.
Kind of like the one person you hoped

not to see back home, is the one you’re disappointed
in not seeing. And how you know you will not change
unless you are saved like a believer.

Driving to New Jersey. Stuck in less-than stop-and-go traffic around Fairfield, CT. Yeah, I'm safe taking pics while driving.




Finally made it to David's house. I got some sweet heart-shaped specs in Philly.







Jesus kept us company during the ride to the Jersey Shore.





David wore the gayest wife-beater he could find, and we love it. (He's smiling because he's just so happy to see me).




One the ride to the shore, one of my contacts ripped and since I'm blind as a cougar I covered up the blind eye with a bandage as to not get headaches from the sight difference. It was fun pretending to be handicapped for a little while. Observation of the day: When you have a physical handicap, you can sometimes get away with a lot more shit. Who's going to turn down the girl with one eye when she asks to use your bathroom?


The Jersey Shore. Pretty. Pretty cold. We both partook in public urination. (an inevitable side affect of public alcohol consumption).