From Trumball to Skid Row
by Rachel Cotton
******In this experimental new feature, I will continue fragments of
stories each month. Since these stories will be so great, you will eagerly await them and,
therefore, the next issue of Yo Beat every 37 days. You are getting sleeeeepy.******
Once upon a time, a little girl lived in a house which smelled pleasantly of warmth and innocuous snot. Her name was Patchouli, and her family ate meatloaf on United States map place-mats and passed the butter, please.
For six years of googlie eyes and slumber parties, Patchouli was carpooled to school in a metallic blue Ford station-wagon, where she made the honor roll and played organized softball. Conforming to the fashion of the in, she used the word "like," rather than pausing awkwardly mid-thought, permed her hair, wore gummy bracelets, crunched socks over leggings, and had a crush on her middle-aged English teacher. Fashion was lime green Reebok hightops. Music was imitating Cyndi Lauper's lisp. And life was grand.
By the age of 9, like all children from suburban Connecticut, Patchouli was shipped off to camp in rural New Hampshire for the summer months. It was at this Camp Chicawana that she played tennis, kissed a boy for the first time, and was introduced to hippie trash music by an underarm-hair-growing, non-deoderant-wearing counselor by the name of Celery-Salt. It was this very Celery-Salt that inaugurated the demise of one innocent girl from Trumball...................stay tuned for the fate of Patchouli, as she, in our next issue, becomes a crazy lady who wanders the streets of Boston and is perpetually applying make-up.
Over it Let's go