• So I'm cruising down the interstate when I stop.
    I get out of the car to sit on the hood and smoke a cigarette and I remember that I'm dreaming;
    The,
    Loopy,
    Goopy,
    Just drank half a bottle of NyQuil dreaming.

    It feels uncomfortably calm,
    Like a cell phone battery at 49 percent with nothing to do that day,
    Reminding me of late night road trips to Oregon with my forehead against the rattling window
    As rain pelts the rented Minivan and the same song floods my earbuds for the third time,
    Sometimes I wish memories weren't always on repeat.

    Like the smell of your ex's perfume six years after you've broken up,
    So you buy incense that smells just like it and write her initials on the plastic packaging.

    It's sort of,
    Kinda like the butterflies before you tell someone you like them,
    But more so like your stomach and heart are planning a counterattack on your heart,
    And one way or another,
    Something is coming out of your a** so be careful where you put your words.
    Something cannot be heartfelt if it's covered in sh*t.

    I'm reminded of how this was supposed to be a memoir to my grandmother,
    Who smelled lots like cats and cigars,
    Who traveled to Italy a few times more than most of us will ever get to,
    And birthday gifts were always currency from different countries.
    I think I aught to travel some time.

    What I mean is,
    How would you react if you were told you only had two years left to live?

    I think I'd be more like her.
    I'd buy a plane ticket to Amsterdam,
    Loose myself on the car ride to the airport,
    Smell my ex's cologne as he waits the counter at Starbucks,
    Pay the receptionist in Canadian coins,
    Ride on the luggage carts and flick cigarette butts into suitcases,
    And think about how all of this is so temporary,
    Maybe I aught to skip the track.