(Interior--woman reading.--Edward Hopper)
She was riding that downward spiral. Fast. Hard. Hellbound.
Spun out of control by an endless soul sucking spiritual vertigo. Even on rare days when she could free herself from its paralyzing vacuum she found no respite.
Running wasn’t the answer. Flight offered no refuge. None. The jerkwater towns, juke-joints, roadhouses, gin-mills, dive hot-sheet hotels were endlessly the same, all melding into identical featured siblings mothered by guilt, fathered by despair.
She’d run her race. Fought her feeble fight. The finale was a hulking shadow looming at the end of life’s darkest alley.
She might have taken that giant step into the void a long time ago, but . . .
But, there was one thing. One thing alone. The place where she could always find solace. Shelter from the storm. Peace. Even a modicum of joy.
One thing . . . her battered and tattered, well thumbed and worn, copy of KISS ME, EVIL. Only within those yellowed and crumbling pages was there solace to be found. It only took a few pages immersed amongst its desperate denizens; Nicky Kid, Trina, Trash, Roxi, Moondog, to snap her out of her malaise, cause her to reassess her situation, realize that compared to that pack of miscreants she was sitting pretty, living large, cruising down life’s golden highway in a magenta drop-top Caddy with 22 caret gold trim. Life was good after all.
Got the blues? Stuck in the doldrums of the same old shit? Give apathy a kick in the ass! Get your very own copy of KISS ME, EVIL.