on relational forgiveness

and the power raging grudges

It was the weirdest situation. I was at the late night jock bar with the hottest girl from the rival school across town. She and I had been spending time together. I had good reason to believe that she ‘liked’ me. As the school weirdo and resident scapegoat, it was absurd.

She was blonde, fit and desired by many. We were ‘dating’. Nothing serious yet, but things seemed to be headed that way. At the club? Dudes were both checking her out and sizing me up - me with my cut of jeans, parade boots and Misfits tee. Her? A pretty little philly in pink pastel polo’s by America’s great Waspy Wizard, Ralph Lauren.

The entire room stunk of stale draft, jello shooters and Drakkar noir. It seemed back then I was either in places that stank of stale beer, badly cut hash and pitchouli or of an ugly combo of stale beer, ralph lauren and drakkar noir cologne all enveloped in the acrid smell of tequila poppers playing yo-yo onto the floor.

That and vanilla.

Holy crap do I ever hate that smell. Slathered on…