2nd Time Out
Admit it, you love that shit. Curled up in the corner of your room, sweaty and alone, you feel like you shouldn't. Everything around you tells you it's not alright and you feel dirty sometimes just thinking about it. Carefully choosing your words for the few that you are willing to confess upon. Your asshole friends don't understand this compulsion and would give you hell for it, but secretly they love it too and wish they could admit it outside the necrotic pustules of their own narrow minds.
Trolling the back roads with a handful of miscreants that you stumbled into somewhere along the way, but not for long; 2 hours is all you allow yourselves of this shit before scurrying back to the safety of the front porch like ants before the storm. It hits you every year about this time, when the Solstice has passed and you're left with the stinking, sweat-soaked waistband of summer it begins to haunt you; creeping into your thoughts like the rash crawling up your leg that you keep telling yourself is poison oak, but know damn well it's not. Take a deep breath and lie to yourself one more time to ease your guilt, but when the noise dies down that thought you can't shake is still there..... Chubs
Shiny, wet, and wiggly, just the way you like 'em. Easy to catch but hold on for the ride when you do; shaking and throwing their head all around when you hook up, a never dull though fleeting moment. You set 'em free and mark one more line or your scorecard; pleased with yourself and wearing a grin that says so. Up to your knees in it right now and your head is buzzing with the afterglow of a fresh catch; no shame no guilt in this moment, Hell Yeah you love this shit. You look at your beat up old watch, tell yourself that you have time to find one more, and start looking around for your next target. Throw that same tired line out there and give it another shot; it's always the same shit, you can't mix it up. So you primp a bit, run a few practice lines and lay it out there..... Got It! and a big one too, maybe you're biggest of the year. Look at ya, grinnin' ear to ear like the cat that ate the canary; you're damn happy with yourself and why not? It was right where you knew it would be; hiding from the sun under the shade of that big tree, it was almost too easy. You set your hook and let it play for a while; watching it dance and move back and forth in front of you before bringing it in close, just for a little bit. A shit-eatin' grin while it's in your hands, maybe a couple pictures, and you gotta go. Time is up and you need to get outta Dodge.
Back at the truck, you still wear that guilty pleasure smile as you get your shit together and start heading back to the front porch where the other fiends are already starting to gather. The air is already thick with smoke and tales of conquest by the time you slither in, cracking open a cold one and pulling up a chair. Shoot the shit, tell your story, and maybe grab a bite to eat before you hit the long road back home. You'll see these freaks again next year; when the air is melting and the river's low, they'll be here.
