You Might Not Believe Me, But I Swear Girls Still Drink Warm Beer Barefoot On The Hoods of Dodges.

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Someone made love up on that ridge. 

I don’t know this for sure. But all my rock n’ roll albums have told me that’s the type of bend in the road where Midwestern legacies are started and young people go to tease death just a bit. They’re probably still out there, all I’d have to do is ask someone who has just enough lines in their face. But people somehow managed to stay polite in this town, it wouldn’t be right to ask them questions like that. At least not before you asked what kind of beer they drank, right before you paid for it. 

People used to make fun of me when i told them I still played vinyl records when I was alone. I’d try and show them why, but all they’d do is giggle as I struggled to play a single track without any traces of the one before it. Their MP3 players could do it, surely I could harness the metal and moving parts and do the same. I’m only now realizing that I was missing the point completely back then. 

It was never about one song. Or one trip into heaven and then back. It could, if you’re unlucky enough. I don’t want to be that unlucky. I’ll find a way to tell her that, I’ll find the right B-side to show her what I mean. Maybe then, after the needle has been put back to rest, I’ll smile at her and she at me, forming new lines on our forehead. Then, who knows? We’ll take a cruise up on that ridge. 

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