Sweet Child O’ Mine
I go running when I can’t think of my next move. Usually this means my next move in a writing situation. Though sometimes it applies to my big old hairy life in general.
Today I ran for an hour, double the time of my usual outing.
And all I got was this thought, at the very end, prompted by the song that made Guns N’ Roses famous:
If you’ve never made out with a boy with a long-ass curly mullet while sitting on a broken barbecue grill in some stranger’s dark backyard on a wet autumn evening after stepping out of a raging keg party and game of pfeffer to smoke cigarettes while the stereo blared this song, then, shit, man. There ain’t nothing for it.