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The story is simple.
Depressed boy meets crazy, possibly legally insane, girl at therapy and their whirlwind adventure begins.
Korin and Micha had only one thing in common: they had each discovered the...
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Walking down the street I see....
Men that look like women and women acting like men
Breast feeding in public—strangely erotic, but only to a virgin
Old hippies dressed in designer clothes pretending to be the same hippies they once were
A teen rapping—someone forgot to tell him he is white and this isn't Compton
"Are you finally going to tell me what was with the protest rally-book burning demonstration?" John asked.
I shrugged; I honestly wasn't sure what in the hell was up with it.
"Huh, was that a homeless person looking for change?" he pressed.
"No. That was Micha. We had a joint therapy session today, if you want to call it an actual session. Mainly she fabricated a bunch of shit while I watched, then she started climbing on the furniture reciting Braveheart."
"Oh, no you didn't!" John said, giving his best Jerry Springer guest head-bob; he knows me too well.
"Yes, I did. It didn't take long before I was standing on the desk with her in full Scot-mode reciting Braveheart." I couldn't help but laugh over how ridiculous it was.
"Holy shit! You just laughed," he gasped, nearly driving off the road in surprise.
"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I dryly said.
John nodded with a small smile but didn't press it.
I had known John since pre-k. He was my best friend, and in most cases, my only friend. Our mothers were best friends, so that put us together a lot outside of school. John was a good guy, very friendly and everyone liked him; compared to me he was a mountain of a man: six-two or three, two hundred and thirty-five pounds of lean muscle, tan skin, blond hair, dark brown eyes, and perfect white smile. All the girls wanted him, but he never showed any interest in them; he was concentrating on getting picked up by a dance company in New York or with the Russian Ballet. Once he got picked up he planned on nailing everything in a hundred mile radius that was of the female variety.
John was tall and tan, and I was short and pasty; five-four on a good day, a buck twenty-five wet, black hair, and blue eyes. My features are more doll-like, at least that's what my mom used to tell me, and John's were manly and rugged. John didn't want a girlfriend, not even someone to play with between shows, but I did. He was all about his dance studies so he could reach his goals, and I gave up on everything. In memory of Mom, the only person that completely supported me, I continued playing the trumpet though my focus had changed. I used to play classical music and original compositions that were cheery and heartwarming, now I only wanted to play jazz and blues; sad haunting pieces that made my heart swell with sadness, and my eyes rim with tears...
