Apples

The first day I met my best friend, I was wearing green plaid pants. I'm not sure why, but we've always remembered that. I guess fourteen year old me in plaid pants and heavy black boots, with my goth makeup and dyed hair, was probably a funny sight. My chubby cheeks in so much contrast with my "tough" exterior. I couldn't really tell you what my friend was wearing, but I can assure you she in some way incorporated black. We used to dress so dark. Listen to really angst-ridden music in the pitch black of her room. Placebo, Garbage, Fiona Apple. We liked to listen to trance, too. Our favorite song was by this French artist. We never knew the name of the song or the lyrics, but we'd blare it loud late at night driving in her mom's green SVU, or some type of car like that. It had heated seats. In winter, we'd drive around with the windows down, hair like Medusa, but our bums were warm at least.
We lived in a small town. All the roads seemed like they somehow connected. Even if you missed the turn, you could always get back to the right place if you just kept driving. Well, she always drove. I still don't have my license to this day. The idea of being the operator of two tons of metal accelerating at tremendous speeds frightens me. Anyways, I'm on a tangent.
As much as I do love writing about my best friend, it gets lengthy and my attention span is short when business is to be done. I'll expand on this one day and maybe use it to write a poem or a piece of short fiction. Who knows? Hope you enjoyed my rant.