Branson, April 1995, #2

The first few weeks’ back swirled around with beer and pot. Seeing people I didn’t want to see again (and those I did, of course). Going back to my old job. Living with my parents. 29 and gay, broke and broken, boomerangin’ back to Momma and Daddy from Key West, now completely different.

They are visibly concerned about my current state of behavior. And I don’t posses the will or desire to allay their fears. I drive around the hills surrounding Branson much more than I did before leaving. The stereo is always loud to drown out the silence ringing just behind my ears whenever I’m awake. I always obey the speed limit while on autopilot.

I think about what I can while driving.

I usually wait to cry until I’m driving, too.