Heidi Curtis

Me and my Ford Mustang Convertible — clearly long past its best days, but still reliably getting me from A to B. An endless highway somewhere. The radio crackles constantly, but the volume is still turned all the way up. Right now, somehow, nothing matters. Where I’m headed? Doesn’t matter. Whether there’s enough gas left in the tank? Doesn’t matter. Responsibilities waiting for me? Don’t matter. I’m enjoying the ride into the unknown. Hair tangled by the wind, cigarette in hand. But at the same time, I’m angry somehow — irritated, frustrated. Questioning the meaning and purpose of life, of my life. I’m stuck. Not with the car, but internally. I want to scream out loud and break free. I don’t know where to go with myself, or where to go at all. Maybe I’ll just stay here and keep doing everything the way I always have. Or maybe I’ll stop doing anything at all, because somehow it’s never enough anyway.

What am I missing?

Oh right, exactly. I don’t even own an old Ford Mustang, I never listen to the radio, I’m not stuck in any crisis, and I don’t actually smoke either. It was simply Heidi Curtis’ songs that lured me like a siren into the depths of my imagination. And even though I know all of this only took place in the tangled mess inside my head, I can still almost feel the wind rushing through my hair.