Shit.”“And what else.”“What do you mean?”“Fucking? Getting high? Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”“What do you mean?”“I mean ...ucking. Getting high. Traveling. Working. On everything but your writing.”“I’m...”“You’re directing your work. I get it. But...”“But what?”“I get this image of a writer. Like a hermit wearing some beat up smelly robe. Because no one’s around to care what you smell like. Swigging coffee and smoking cigarettes. Typing away incessantly. Because you’re caught up in your. *Is that cool with your mom and pops?* *Yeah, I’ll be ready* I told her I was going to take her dancing, she walked out of her house in a purple freakum dress, 5 inch black heels, and a matching black clutch. My mouth was watering. ‘Hey, you look good,’ she said, kissing me on the cheek. ‘Thanks, so do you.’ But I’m damn sure she knew that already. ‘So, where are we going?’ ‘I promised you some dancing right?’ I took her to Fuego, this real, live reggaeton club, that I liked. We spent most of. More

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