I had no game plan, no job, no permanent mailing address, no meal plan, no “first-year in the real world” advisor and no chance to claim a “grade forgiveness” if I messed up a semester of life.
It’s a land of simultaneous anonymity and overt friendliness. Things happen there that people in other states wouldn’t, couldn’t, fathom.
I’d sit at the front desk of my motel and drink coffee from a Marlins mug and eat orange slices and watch the waves move back and forth.
Deputies arrived on the scene and tried to detain Bruni, who started flailing around on the ground and speaking but not making sense. Deputies said Bruni sucked up the water that had spilled from the vacuum and spit it out.
Where does my intensity go if it’s no longer there during the day?
Have you ever seen an alligator crawl out of a canal by your friend’s house and almost eat someone? Legit every day of my childhood.
If you went by Bruce’s songs, you’d think New Jersey was just endless downtrodden, lovable, tragic characters working in factories and wishing to get out of this town one day.
Consider me the human version of a potted orchid. An old, stern woman on an airplane once told me orchids are the most difficult flower to grow.
We were all going to die, here, together, I thought. All of us at once. Something about that made me feel both relieved and sad.
I can’t look away from her shining, beautiful face. I’m chalking this up to her being — maybe not my type — but humanity’s type.