We hit bottom. Then we hit bottom again. Then we wake up and we are 30-years-old and wonder, “where did I go?” How did I arrive to waking up in the gray damp squalor of a jail cell when last I was paddling an orange We•no•nah canoe to the far, far end of the lake. Through the Tunnel of Love and into the shallows with pancake sized lily pads and one two three four five painted turtles sunning themselves on a withered log. I left off somewhere. Where did I end and the party and chaos begin? Ah, yes. Boston. … Continue reading
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