Don't go and judgin' me

I'm 91, but that don't mean I'm dead yet. The other day when I was writin', and I put that someone was at the door? Well, it scared the petunias outta me, but I ran and fetched my wig. While I was back yonder doin' a quick primp in the mirror, I also stuck my pistol in my jacket pocket—just in case—and went to see who was a bangin' on the door. Turns out it was Mr. ___. I can't say his name on here, 'cause several people from around town are readin' what I write. I opened the door and let him in, and we went back to my apartment.

I lit me up the wonder weed I keep tucked in my wig pouch to help with the arthritis pains. It's also good for overall relaxin', and, well, to put it delicately, we hit the sheets. It's been years, and it was as good as I remembered. Mr.___ was all the gentleman. He stayed with me for a little bit, and then I escorted him out.

Now, I wouldn't be sharin' this sort of intimate detail had I not written there was someone there in the first place. I ain't learned how to erase yet, so I had some explainin' to do.

Aside from that, this weekend in Prairie Springs was pretty dadgum dull. The coffee machine overflowed, and I know we at least broke three cups (I don't know how many Maxine and Luciano broke), and I got me a letter from Ivory Black in the paper mail. Why in the hell she wrote me, I do not know, but it was kind of her. She probably got wind that The Tonight Show had called and was hopin' I'd take her with me. Just between you and me, I don't see that happenin'. The last person I'd wanna take on a trip to Hollywood is Ivory Black. She'd steal the thunder from a rain cloud. Plus, she's got her life up in New York City now. "Eller" Williamson says he's got a whole book about her. Bless his heart, but I cain't figure out why he'd wanna give her her own book. I really shouldn't say that, she's gotta a good story: how she left her husband and went dream-chasing up in New York. Speaking of New York, I hear that the Prairie Springs book might soon be at some bookstore in Syracuse called Barn Snowball, or something like that. It was Constance spewing the gossip, and sometimes she's sloppy with the details.

I was lookin' out the window today as I worked the register and saw some man sittin' in his car over in the center parking lot. I said to myself, now aint' that a shame, some people spend their whole life sittin' in a fuckin' parking lot. Life's a car that was meant to be driven. You ain't never gonna find the right path if you don't go somewhere.

I guess Ivory Black ain't so bad after all, but judgin' from her letter, it looks like her path led her to a stop sign. Don't say you heard it here first, but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she don't wind up back where she started.