THEY SAY TURNING THIRTY IS TOUGH, but that was nothing. At least at that point there was hope. I had all of my hair; hair that had a certain colour and sheen. My stomach was a thirty-two so I could fit into pants that looked and felt great. It hadn’t been true with my life up to that point, but for some reason, I felt that the next ten years had the promise of something good; something profound. Maybe my thirties were where my life would begin?
Fast forward ten years and any belief I had of a happy existence had been diminished. A divorce. A daughter who hates me – or who is cripplingly ashamed of me, anyway. Personally, I’d prefer the hate. A forty-inch waist. No pants look good this big. As for my hair… please, don’t get me started. It’s a joke! Patches of unmanageable grey mock me every morning, reminding me of what a pathetic, ugly loser I’ve become; the result of an endless line of failures that span back 14,601 days of mundane existence. Today, my eyes were red to boot. Goddamn dark rum must have beat the shit out of my insides. Drowned them, at least.
In my youth, I’d seen some things.
Texas is a place like no other. People seem to get away with more shit there than anywhere else. The death penalty ain’t much of a deterrent when you’re likely to be killed on the streets or buried in the desert. Well, Texas in the 70’s was horrific; plagued with scandal and violence. I’d rather not say what it was that made me leave, but it ain’t no place to raise a family – and so I came here, to the City of Angels.
True – it is a love or hate place. Ain’t no doubt about that… but to me, I love it.