The year be 2007, and me matey’s and I just docked on the shore of new land, a place where all the scoundrels of the world be roaming free with little to no consequences, the drunkest, meanest, stinkiest, tannest lads and lassies ye will ever meet—Daytona Beach, Florida. 

The boy tugged playfully at the girl’s plaid pleated skirt as they were making out. A TV show of some sort was playing in the background, but neither person paid it much mind, or any at all, really. They were both engrossed in the taste of each other’s tongues. 

I’m sure you’re the kind of person who likes culture. Maybe you own shirts with buttons. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve read a book without pictures for some reason. Maybe you use a napkin when you eat. I’ll tell you openly and honestly, because I’m that kind of person, that I was a little bit behind in the culture department. It’s not that I don’t admire culture. I’ve learned to recognize it whenever it comes on TV, except sometimes I change the channel by accident. So I admire culture, as I said, and one day I sat on the couch and thought about what it would be like to be cultured myself. I started to imagine myself as somebody who might use a napkin, but I fell asleep and spilled my potato chips.

“Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with Jason.”

You gape at the twin of yourself who purposely rode into you with her electric Divvy bike. Except it’s not a twin at all. You don’t even have a twin, not that you know of. This not-twin who looks exactly like you is wearing your ripped jeans, your yellow sweater with the broken zipper, and your scruffy checkered Vans you bought back when you thought you were a skater.

I have no truck
with planning ahead, and thus
from a frosted upstairs window
watch my forlorn Mini Cooper disappear
beneath a white shroud
(and who knows
what the kid next door will charge
to dig it out)
a larger concern is the wind–
well, not the wind