jody g.

Sometimes there’s nothing terribly more or less important than eating half-melted ice-cubes out of a blue plastic tray and dancing to the Beach Boys’ “Help, Help Me, Rhonda” with Jody G. on her living room carpet during a middle-school summer.

(Her being the boy and her dad being away.)

Sex with gardeners.
She couldn’t help but think it was (almost) always a
Good thing.
Especially for those with longing, forlorn,
Broken hearts.