As the last I will say inebriated post of the night I ask of a once barista of a coffee shop in northern new england to profess honesty here knowing she’s not reading this forum. I kissed the ground upon landing at the salt pile with my French foreign legion hat and bandolier full of Pezz dispensors I suppose ready to capture the first dreaming heart I came upon no matter what age. I gave me guns to the good homeless kids gathered in the city square and went home with the barista, little toy knights gathered upon her shelf. Her misionaries in a foreign land, I tried to tell her but she wouldn’t have it, sword and shield man.
I’ve been known when too much into my drink to believe certain songs were written about me, but then I’ve been known to be in many places at once as they seem to want. Not me. Not the amazing story, but some made up sick fantasy that does the average dim police offical feel good.