Or this one: I'm driving through the mountains of Southwest _______ on my way home from college in the Spring of 19__. In the passenger seat beside me is a pixie of a girl who speaks with a German accent, has dyed jet-black hair, and who has just, in a nut-achingly lurid gesture, taken down one side of her black tank-top to rub lotion into a brand-new tattoo on her left shoulder blade. I can't tell you how this chick impresses me, being, seemingly, all things urban, all things worldly, talking, as she incessantly does, about nightclubs in cities I'll never see, records by bands I'll never hear. The Honda veers wildly as I watch those fingers of hers rub white lotion into that blue crescent moon.
I ask her if she has others of those -- those --
She says yes.
I ask what of.
She says a rose.
I ask where.
She smiles, looks at me, and says -- you have to hear it with the German accent -- "Ze rose is on my ass."
