Sometimes I fall into a vicious cycle where I’m mentally and emotionally frustrated and cannot manage to channel that energy into productive avenues. In the old days, this would lead to drinking or drugs, but I don’t do that anymore. Instead, I try to go about my day, generally fail to complete mundane tasks and end up feeling ‘stuck’ – this progresses into a cycle of mild depression, feelings of inertia, guilt over said inertia, and then on and on it goes until something snaps me out of it.
It feels like I’m seated in a car stuck in neutral yet compelled to rev the engine until it screams.
When did I last curl up in her lap? It’s been so long, I cannot recall. Despite numbered boxcars on the calendar and the disinterested faces of clocks, a concrete memory eludes me. Time, location, and date, they’re merely three dimensions after all.
That number, it could be a trinity – secure, owned, loved.
Instead, it feels abstract.
Feeling a tad nostalgic this evening and found The Cult meandering down memory lane. I’ve always loved this song in equal proportion to all the hedonistic acts that took place while listening to this tune – privately, in night clubs, and two live performances. Unsurpisingly, The best memories were made behind closed doors.
Well, most of them. Because then I found this video and remembered Bike Week, 1995. It was a ‘working vacation’ for yours truly, but that never stopped me from having a good time. Bike Week was always crazy, probably still is, but 95 was the most insane trips to Daytona I ever made.
You make me remember my youth and many pleasurable times spent in the back seat of a car. I spent many hours going down on girl friends in the back seat. Yes, back in the early 1950’s the girls loved getting their pussies licked. It was the best birth control available then.
Lol, good memories. And by the way, we still love getting our pussies licked.
It’s a fact that nearly all panel beaters these days only know anything about painting from painting their missus’ toenails. Nothing annoys me more than taking a car to a beater and having some jumped up nancy boy going on about my motor and the paint job he’s going to do like I am going to deflower him on it after I am done. It is a car and needs to be driven. Much like the women other guys think they own. You never what a car can really do until someone else is driving it. Nothing better than a hot purring engine
Very true.