Bobby Orr, who apparently is now a Yoda-like, senile old man who lives in my parents' neighborhood (in my subconscious), drove a golf cart around the front yard.
I called him over and convinced him to stop. Mr. Orr was very cranky at needing to pause. He refused to listen. He wanted to keep DRIVING! Feel the road (or snow drift, or grass). Feel the wind, the plastic of the golf cart's gas pedal.
"Wouldn't it be fun to drive along the street until you get back to your house, and go inside, and take a nap, Mr. Orr?"
"No." [I needed to learn how to refrain from forming yes-no questions.] A wide smile upon his face - "The Frosts have a huge lawn. I'm going to go ride on that!"
"Go home, Mr. Orr!" This, watching him putter back into the woods, wishing there were such things as people-leashes.
Wait a second. There are! Oh, sneaky subconscious.
I've long bemoaned the fact that I was handcuffed (velcro, Mickey Mouse pattern) to my father when we went around in Montreal. I think that event has single-handedly caused any neurosis you might identify in my fractured pscyhe.
Well, Mr. Subconscious, you're not taking me without a fight!
2 weeks ago