I keep dreaming of tornadoes. I'm not quite sure what to make of that.
Last night, I didn't dream of tornadoes, but at one point I did rest in that in-between state - not awake exactly, not quite gone.
And I thought about how lately I see an abundance of the Chevy trucks like the one I lost my virginity in all those years ago.
Having your cherry popped in the bed of a truck does not make for a great romantic tale.
Except there were stars overhead somewhere, I suppose.
I couldn't see them though because my eyes were probably squeezed shut and the camper shell would have made it impossible anyway.
Those were the days.
When I thought Micelob beer was the height of sophistication.
And he was pretty special. Or, at the very least, convincing. No, he didn't have to get me drunk or marry me first. Yes, I'm now friends with him on Facebook. I mean, how else would I have a complete set? He's key to the Old Boyfriend Buffet, right?
So now I see those trucks all over town and here's the thing that causes me to notice:
Those Chevy trucks are adorned with those Antique Vehicle license plates and since it's all about me, I conclude: My virginity is an antique.