When I park the car in front of my house, I sit and stare at the accumulation of my life. This is what I have, a car and a house, but apparently can afford neither. I get out of the car and walk through the silent house, my heels echoing in the near empty space. I walk straight out the back door and fall into my favorite chaise on the deck overlooking the ocean. The waves have always calmed me after the volume of my existence. I didn’t give a second’s thought to money when I quit the band. I knew, or I thought I knew, that I could do anything. I suppose I still can, but the day-to-day logistics never occurred to me. I worked my ass off, sacrificing a passable singing voice to growl for these people since I was fifteen years old. I should have had something to show for it, or at least fall back on. I suppose that would be a singing competition now. I thought of the other judges and if I really had a chance to win. Did I want to even do that? Win? Did I even care? My gut was yelling hell yes.
What do You think about Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3)?
