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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.04.04, early monday morning

Last Thursday, Mel drove us to the stationer's. I decided to stay in the car. After she got out, Mel asked, Hey, do you want to listen to music? We had been listening to Cat Power's Free during the trip and I was scribbling down everything that had been dampened for the last month or so, so I answered, Yes.

Well, dear, Mel said, Turn the key in the ignition.

Unfortunately, I do not know much about cars aside from being a passenger; what is stick-shift, to me, vs. automatic? I had not known that, unlike Jimmy's car, Mel's old BMW would not stay still when turned on. It would, instead, leap like a tiger out of a small cage into the rear-end of the car parked in front of us, a hapless dusty little black hatchback bought by its unwitting owner in Monterrey and most likely driven to the beautiful shore there. What cheap plastic! It crumpled horrifyingly upon impact with the sturdy green monster of metal built in the 70s when cars were meant to last longer than a few years.

I am the person you do not want in your passenger seat. I am a walking disaster who should stick to walking.

Mel was ok about it. Just an accident. It could have been worse. Someone could have stood in that tight space between my turning hand and the future.




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