Susan is a Punk
I had planned to write at length about visiting a beach on Whidbey island, in philosophical terms, pointing out things about footprints and crabs and life and people and nature...
But that all pales in comparison to the discovery that my stepmom, Susan, was at one time, a punk.
We were looking through old clothes when we found a dirty, worn black leather jacket, covered in bits of metallic flotsam and little patches. On the back there was a great dark cloth patch with the words "EXPLOITED," written in stylized letters with a black permanent marker.
"Oh, I bought that in-" -New York, the label said. It was obviously of tiny-bohemian-boutique manufacture.
"What's the EXPLOITED for?"
"Some band; maybe one of my boyfriends. I don't remember exactly."
It's funny because it makes so much sense.
But that all pales in comparison to the discovery that my stepmom, Susan, was at one time, a punk.
We were looking through old clothes when we found a dirty, worn black leather jacket, covered in bits of metallic flotsam and little patches. On the back there was a great dark cloth patch with the words "EXPLOITED," written in stylized letters with a black permanent marker.
"Oh, I bought that in-" -New York, the label said. It was obviously of tiny-bohemian-boutique manufacture.
"What's the EXPLOITED for?"
"Some band; maybe one of my boyfriends. I don't remember exactly."
It's funny because it makes so much sense.