For nearly a minute I continued on in Pro I Sew A Piece Of My Heart Into Every Mask I Make Heart Shirt silence. Something that could stretch out from miles away? That was new and shitty. The rest of the drive was quiet and fine. Midwinter sunshine fell easy on the fields and forests of Maryland as I passed. I was the only car on the road. Quiet, so I stepped outside and took it all in. Then I took the flask of Wild Turkey from my jacket pocket. As I raised the bourbon to take a pull, I felt the dirty chill of a job’s attention. The bottle shattered in my hand. This thing was absolutely a dick.
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Whatever it was, it knew I was coming, it had a Pro I Sew A Piece Of My Heart Into Every Mask I Make Heart Shirt hell of a reach, and it was kind of a dick. I parked on the street next to the Hoffs’ house. They lived in a tidy rancher, blue siding, willows in the yard, gravel drive, the whole nines. It was a lovely acre in a lovely neighborhood and I couldn’t look at the house without feeling nauseous. I slipped off one headphone to make sure the screaming had stopped.
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I walked up to the Hoff’s pretty blue door and tried my best to Pro I Sew A Piece Of My Heart Into Every Mask I Make Heart Shirt look presentable. My denim jacket was frayed and old, I was wearing a band shirt from a show I’d never been to, and I hadn’t shaved in a week’s worth of Sundays. I did brush my teeth that morning, though, so I was feeling crisp. I knocked on my most professional knock and waited. A noticed a little bourbon was dripping down my pants and soaking into my socks. It was a banner day, already.
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