i punched a wall and she bought me ice cream

the world is full of mixed messages.

in Nebraska, stop lights are horizontal and dough is baked around the meat of a Runza.  

i drove my friend's car there once while he elevated a leg full of staples.  Spicoli's dad called him my Samoan.  hey mel, where's your Samoan?  he's knocked out on pain killers.  or he's picking at his staples. but where'd you find him?  in a phone book in 7th grade.  i like him, that big 'ol Samoan.  

that's what we did back then.  we worked in gas stations and warehouses and got in our car after work to drive 7 hours for a boy we couldn't get enough of.  we learned that manual transmission could still have cruise control and that a friend wouldn't bail on you just because they tore the shit out of their leg in a work accident (even though you told them they should bail on you).  we played frisbee and sang in the sisters room and fell asleep watching Army of Darkness.

but back to the wall and the fist.  back to the ice cream and my scrunched up nose.  back to his story about putting his drugged out brother in a choke hold.  

i think

if i didn't have the Samoan and the boyfriend's dad and the trash cans that lift their lid like magic, 

i might not know who i could become