This weather, this false spring always sets off my wanderlust.
All I want to do is to climb on the back of a motorcycle and drive
south until we find a cowboy bar where I can dance and do body shots off his
neck.
But we don't have a motorcycle, or any tequila most likely.
We have salt and I might be able to scare up a salvageable lemon
from the bottom of the fruit drawer, but there is really no point without the
tequila.
This weather, this false spring always sets off my wanderlust.
The cowboy bar me still feels so much more authentic than the
grown-up face I wear around my suburban town. Fifty-one, but in my head I’m half that.
May as well blame the weather.
It will be warm soon and the need to run away will
But this weather, this false spring always sets off my wanderlust.
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