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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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I wonder....
Do birds have washed car radars so they know where to shit?
Why don't they consider Mentos and Soda a weapon of mass destruction?
What do I build and why do I want them to come?
Are midget tri-pods real?
I can't believe I snogged him! Something is seriously wrong with me! It wasn't horrible. It was nice. Mum was right, trumpet players lips are very nice and worth the search. Ugh! Reel in the English, Micha, otherwise they'll have you committed.
John and Korin sat across from me at the dark coffee shop; for some reason they both looked nervous which was slightly amusing.
"Are you two always so quiet?" I asked the obvious.
They looked at each other before turning their attention back to me.
"No," they said in unison.
"Where are you from?" John asked when Korin stepped on his foot under the table.
"In theory I was born in New York and raised in London," I said.
"London, huh? That must have been amazing!" he said, longingly. "I've always wanted to go there, but the farthest from home I've been was L.A. for a couple of dance clinics. Why would you move back to the states?"
I gnawed on my bottom lip and looked across the room to the dirty hippie with a guitar and his equally dirty hippie girlfriend with bongos that were getting ready to play a set. "It wasn't by choice, I assure you," I finally said.
"Who died first?" Korin blurted out.
"What in the hell?" John punched him in the arm. "Dude, that's rude!"
It was rude, very rude, but obviously Korin paid attention in therapy when I spouted off two compared to his one.
Bugger.
"Dad died in a car wreck, and mum couldn't handle it," I whispered before looking back to them. "Do you know what you want to drink?" I didn't wait for their response and got up; I had to get away from the table before I started crying or throwing my own shit like a monkey. Nothing was sexier than an emotionally unbalanced chick completely losing it in public.
Why in bloody hell is everyone looking at me?
Apparently only wearing a kimono and underwear wasn't the best idea for the evening. It looked good when I left the house, and it still looked good, but apparently that was the problem. Recently I had discovered that I was a dancer, amongst other things. Possibly that's why I was comfortable wearing skimpy, barely-there clothes in public. Then again, as a dancer I would have been surrounded by other dancers wearing much the same so the attention wasn't solely on me. At the moment there were no chorus lines, no crowds of girls looking like makeup-less Geisha giants so I would have blended in. Every patron in the crowded café was staring at me, watching me lean across the counter to order drinks, admiring the two-word sentiment plastered across my overly round backside; it was awkward.
