Three Dreams That Would Have Changed My Life at Seventeen
This story is not a complex maze to conquer. This is a study in random thought. Thanks, Kenneth
Welcome to my dreams
You want a cold, tin plateful of real, sometimes-almost-racy truth? Well, crawl right up to the counter, my curious friend. I have some sensitive "personal bombs" to share with you if you have the guts. I am serious. You may not be able to cope with the information in this piece, so do not say that I didn't warn you.
If you lean toward sipping sweet Atlanta peach juice for breakfast in a cold glass, well, you are the person I need to not just read this very-personal expose' of when I experienced my first baptism of manly-growth of three definite things I loved so deeply that I felt I wasn't a secure member of the human race.
Living with the same dreams
I would awake seven days a week with the same thoughts I had as when I retired the night before: "If I only had a '57 Chevy or a '55 Buick with a girl next door, I would be the happiest homo sapiens who ever drew a shady breath, for most teenage guys take shady breaths when their heart's desires are about to dominate their lives for a few fleeting years. No more.
If you think about it, when teenage guys' burning-desires start growing, it is similar to the moments prior to a volcano erupting in far-reaches around Hawaii or the Fiji Islands. It's that anxious with us teenage guys. We seldom sleep a healthy night's sleep or eat a full-meal for dreaming of having a mysteriously-simple set of desires that would make us real men instead of cheap facsimiles.
Hello, girl next door
Only God Himself, in-person, could do more in the area of exciting life moments than owning a sleek, tuned-to-perfection, and shining like a new summer morning on any creek bank in Alabama, '57 Chevrolet, preferably one in red. And having red interior, automatic with a 283 cubic inch mill, twin exhaust with Cherry Bomb glass packs and an eight-track tape player. This is the machine that not just promises, but guarantees a night of pleasurable-wrecking of a teenage guy's body with a girl next door who hides behind her manners and prim upbringing.
The same pleasure can be derived from owning a '55 Buick Roadmaster, washed, waxed, and detailed to a nervanic-area of perfection and when the engine is running, it's more of a message of dominating power over man and beast. Smooth, never intimidated--giving the driver, (me), "that" power of success in enterprise and love all teen guys seek for when afoot.
And if Christini Ricci had been around and been 17 like me in this dream-laden years of my life, she, without question, would be "my" choice of girls-next-door to ride around with me all weekend for just the pleasure of sitting next to such a goddess who also loves a '57 Chevy or '55 Buick, both with eight-track tape players with "Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild" already sticking in this witchy-device that turns girls from thoughts of being homemakers to lovers of men. It's that powerful.
Live in love and pleasure, Ernest Hemingway, the unrequited master of how to live life and feel it run down your back on a chilly morning. I hear you and your written thoughts. I had the same fixation to these three creations that had God's fingerprints on them: The '57 Chevy, '55 Buck and the lovely Christini Ricci.
Special personal note . . .
Just want you to know that most of the girls in this video are nice and I would not have turned down a date with them, but none of them are Christini Ricci.
Thank you, Kenneth
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