March 1, 2001

Some people dream of mansions in Malibu, I dream of a truckers bar in Texas.  Some greasy spoon roadside cafe that plays rockabilly music where I can be a waitress.  Smile at all the travelers, have co-workers named Barbara or Shelly, and a steady stream of cowboy boyfriends.  I'd live in a trailer, I’d get off work at eight o'clock, and go drink Miller Genuine Draft at some other hick bar.  I’d stare at the mountains in the distance and think that I couldn’t do any better on the other side than I could do here.  I could be content.  I could have a sister who worked at a bank, and was constantly badgering me to open up a saving account with a 7.5% savings rate.  I wouldn’t understand, but I’d trust her so she could make her quota, and everything would be fine.  I’d be among the normal people, where a guy could look into your eyes and tell you “I love you,” and you could tell that he meant it, not that he was a really good actor.