The Break Time I used to frequent right outside my old apartment is gone and I am sad because as silly as it sounds, I became attached to it while I lived nearby. It’s like that time my nine-year-old printer died and I wrote a eulogy for it on my old Xanga. I know, I know. I’m a dork like that. Or is it geek? I can never tell the difference. (Or maybe nerd?) Anyway, I was about to get gas there on my way back to KC one time and as I turned on my left blinker, I looked and it was not there. There was all this space that surfaced, like the Hulk had uprooted it and flung it somewhere far, far away. What an offensive toy it was, the filling station. Now all that’s left are the memories.
Adding gas to my car during the ice storm and still making it on time to work despite having a 45-minute commute. Someone asking to wash my car, but when I said I didn’t have money to pay them, they decided to go ahead and wash it anyway. The nice lady behind the counter printing out a receipt for me when it didn’t print at the pump.
These memories are bland to everyone else, but they are treasured by the one who owns them, to be taken out like old family photos whenever I drive by the space that surfaced courtesy of the Hulk.
At least he understands. I don’t live there anymore so might as well rip out every trace of me. So I don’t have to think about the car accident right by that intersection. I didn’t see it happen, but I sure saw the aftermath. And now I understand how Dr. Dre be shooting out rap artists because the aftermath never unfolds neatly. The world could use some more rappers to paint us the real picture, the one that is never imitated and not many have access to.
I ended a sentence with a preposition and I don’t care because the Break Time I used to frequent right outside my old apartment is gone and I am sad…