THE GIRL WITH A CURL TELLS IT ALL
Listen, two wrongs don't make a right. Well, not exactly, But who cares. Look, they're the same. Really. I know everyone's always telling you bad feels bad, but think about it. Bad feels good. Like eating strawberries, those soft, pimply ones. Or sliding ice-chips down your thigh. Or sitting between the Hubbard twins at the 41 Drive-in. God, they were beautiful. Blue-eyed blondes slicked back like light speed. Then there was the car: '52 Merc hardtop just like James Dean's but black, not red, got it?. Want the rest? OK, put up your paws. Bark. OK, OK, take it easy, here's the particulars: Fifteen coats of Ultra-Midnite laid on so tight it made you shiver. Chopped, channeled, lowered, louvered. Offenhausers. Four-on-the-floor. Black-tint windows you could go naked inside. Hollywood kick-your-ass-low-rumble duals. No chrome, black bad beautiful God-it-was-gorgeous. They had these indigo ultra-violets strung all around inside that made their teeth glow every time they reached across me to get a smoke, and I'd like to tell you my nipples wanted to break off like pencils that's how bad I felt, but they hurt so good, like hot matches melting I didn't care how bad it felt, so right there I made up my mind about a couple of things you should know about. Like Lucky's. That's what they smoked. You got it: Red bulls-eye's. They'd light up and all those beautiful blue-white teeth would be grinning away at me and then they'd ask me the same thing they always did, like they'd rehearsed it, or maybe they were just dumb and it's all they could figure out, they'd say, Maybe you could tell us if we're bothering you? And after that we'd cruise Five Points and sidle up to anything that looked fast the light would change and I'd feel that fat hog transmission winding out underneath me like I was leaving my organs behind to medical science so now that we've got