How many of us have had that feeling, that tickle inside your stomach, that your brakes have failed?
Let’s just say as a kid growing up, a lot. I was constantly getting into trouble. Not shoplifting, skipping school, smoking behind the garden shed kind of trouble. More like smoking outside the fireworks factory.
I still remember snaking out late at night to go on a motorcycle ride with my friend. He zipped me into a jumpsuit—in case we crashed, he said, I wouldn’t lose the top layer of skin. Good thing, because we came to a sign at the bottom of a steep hill that as we flashed by it—my brain translated the letters: Bridge Out.
Go ahead—tell us about the crazy, the craziest of crazy. Flash about the inkling you got before all hell broke loose, before the wheels came off. (The worst part is when your mother/mother/conscience asks: Why? There is no answer.)
Right now, write.