punk rock girl.

Because I was distraught to discover the lyrics and tablature to this song lying on the ground after a return from a BBQ dinner with my dad (meaning that they'd played it at the 3-day-jam in my absence) I acquired a copy of it through Napster after my bashfulness was brought to note and fell asleep listening to it (and, granted, sundry Radio Free Vestibule and covers of Misirlou).

Clearly this had a hand in setting the stage of my subconsciousness for the evening, which was spent in the company of the punk rock girl from my very own personal history (Lisa, for those in the home audience keeping score.) I don't know whether to categorize this as a dream or a fantasy, since it consisted of the idealized interaction between us in the plain but profound conversation which I'd longed for in high school, boring through the back of her bemohawked head with the intensity of my laser eye stare. She had spent the intervening years since secondary school further educating herself (as opposed to my merely attending class) in all the important matters - deeply schooled in Emma Goldman, Kropotkin, Proudhon, Situationalism, Direct Action - and I agreed with her in everything, not because she was who she was, or even because she was a she, but intellectually; she was espousing my favorite ideologies, but had the chops to back them up with solid and critical interpretation.

And still with the safety pins and the fishnet stockings.

And me with the waking up wishing I'd called the number written in my yearbook three years ago. Next time someone refers to you in writing as the one fond memory of an institution, don't sow that seed as a plant of regret.

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