Dear Wigleaf,

I quit my job. Yes, I quit right in the midst of financial disaster. My friends say I've lost my mind. They're probably right, but I feel better than ever. There's something liberating about grabbing your dreams by the throat and strangling them, shaking them 'til money falls out, or they injure you in self defense, knee you in the groin, poke your eye out.

This summer, I burnt my fingertips with a blow torch, soldering a key on my sax. My fingers have scarred over, smooth. I'm contemplating etching a new identity. If I carve grooves just right, drop a needle on my finger and walk in circles, do you think the song inside me, the one that has tormented me all my life, will finally be unleashed?

It's worth a try.

If you don't hear from me for a while, assume bandages are getting in the way of my typing.
 
Bye for now,

Paula






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Read PR's story, "Rusty Nail."

w i g · l e a F               10-23-09                                [home]