by L. Virelli
A tale taken from my real life diary.
Howie Dewin, 1 … Howie Dewin, 2 … Dick Tator.
I typed the strange names into a computer at work—hotel reservations for several different people. Tension knit between my brows. Who on earth used such ridiculous names?
During another era, in a different century, I got to meet my idol. I was nineteen years old. For a long time now, I’ve wanted to write a story about it but wasn’t sure I had enough material.
I wrote a diary when I was younger (now I’m young, then I was younger), and figured I must’ve written about it in there.
Those of you who have read me before, know that I’m a rocker chick. A rocker chick without any tattoos, and who doesn’t go after the rock boys (at least not in a few decades).
Rock music has got me in a strangle hold, baby, and I’m going to keep on lovin’ it because this weekend I was rockin’ in paradise. In case you didn’t recognize that sentence, there are three different song titles in it from three different bands.