Things fall apart and fragility arises out of the strangest gestures. The abrupt end to casual flirtation upon the assumption of sex-and-nothing-but, so definite that he'd scheduled at time and a place (wha?). The clash of egos wherein one side boasts of infinite money and the other secretly holds dear the belief of being the better writer. Then all that is awash when my mother calls, in tears, saying she's being admitted to the hospital. Things fall apart and fragility arises.
The other night, the subject of me not owning a car came up and the question was posed: why don't I own a car? Sure, there's the Huckabee-esque desire to limit my use of fossil fuels. Sure, there's the fact that I find 98% of automobiles to be aesthetically repulsive. And yes, there's my frugal nature that makes me ride my bike in the rain rather than pay $100 a month to insure a car I'll use once or twice. But the real reason is the freedom. I can't handle that kind of freedom. I've always wanted to taste real southern cooking -- BBQ, collard greens -- the kinds of foods I only hear about but can never find in this corner of the continent.
If I had my own car, there'd be nothing holding me back from just dropping a pencil on a map and disappearing into the lead point.
