The time has come for a Boston icon, a legend among family, friends, the top 40 countdown, and women between the ages of 18 and 45, to leave the city and impart on an adventure of epic proportions. Obviously Peter didn't write this blog, or, by referring to himself in the third person, he feels he can escape culpability and write as much narcissistic and self-aggrandizing crap as he wants. For this journey, I will be your guide and copilot— and will go unnamed so I can say and write whatever I want with total abandon. Sure, Peter has been driving the whole time, thus far, but I’ve been checking my email and gchatting, so the difficult tasks really fall to me. I also fed him a banana—no comments necessary, it was already awkward enough.
If you’re asking how we might go about writing a blog as we are obviously driving (Guy on side of road in downpour, Peter so generously offers: Ohhh, sucks to have to change a flat tire in this rain) then I must tell you that technology allows us to have computers on our laps and the internet in cars. Also, we can’t get lost because there are maps in our dashboard. I don’t know the names of all these technologies, but it makes roadtripping like a picnic—if your picnic included sending emails, downloading songs on iTunes, and finding the nearest gas station (POI= point of interest, for all you non-adventurers out there) because you’re almost on empty.
Let’s take a step back though. It’s worth remembering where Peter has been to get to the place he is now. For this, I might need your help. On this blog, I make a request of you, my fair ladies and fine gentlemen, that you provide stories from the past (or present and future, they don’t need to be true) of Peter and his escapades. Think of this like the card you didn’t send him when you knew he was going away, or the text message you failed to grace him with because you were too lazy to say, “Hey, I know you’re going to bawl your eyes out when you cross out of Massachusetts, and you’ll probably wet your pants from anxiety too, ummm, I’ll be thinking of you.”
I’ll break the ice with my own short story. Peter and I had to pack the SUV, hybrid—save the environment with 25 miles to the gallon, and as we brought his few belongings that marked the expansion of his life with stuff he’d probably put away and not see for months out to the car, I could see the red spreading in his eyes. There was a distance that couldn’t be breached, a distance that a soul stretched across much wider than the mileage from east coast to west (Peter asked me to add that, he thinks he’s some kind of poet). Peter began to weep, let’s call it, uncontrollably. The skis were in the car, a few suitcases, a couple bags of shoes (one including a pair of Victoria’s Secret, rainbow slippers= Peter has some secrets) and in the midst of all his possessions, Peter lay himself down, huddled close to his ski bag, pulled his knees to his chest and shook as if there were a monster in his closet. My response, “Peter, awwww, how cute. You’re shaking with excitement. Well, I’ve gotta get the rest of this stuff in the car, so I’m just going to put it on top of you.” Which I did. And there he stayed until we stopped for dinner, releasing saline water drops onto the tarp he’d set down on the back seats of the car to prevent damage because he needs to sell the SUV when he gets to LA. He tried to reach forward between the front seats and hold my hand, but I slapped it away. I was teaching him how to be strong.
Ok, now you can add your story. Maybe you can make Peter cry again, please, it’ll be great to add those pictures to the blog:
(Your story here)
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