Growing Down

When I’m walking and I hear the metallic, reindeer bells twinkling sound of someone coming up from behind me, I can always tell the jingle of car keys from the rattle of a dog’s medallion because a pocket didn’t jump up behind me when I was 11 and sink its teeth into the back of my knee.

Right now, Beer tastes like that strange metallic foam your father let you try when you were 12.
I’ve moved on though.
I suck from the teat of a white Russian pacifier.