Friday morning, windows open, nice breeze, quiet neighborhood. Until this:
There are two little boys up the street who have motorized cars. You can only just catch a glimpse of them between the trees. But they sound like freakin' jet planes with their little tires on the street pavement. Of course, I would be on the phone when they started up this morning. And the younger one, who only knew the one line of the song, was belting it out with all his might, up and down, back and forth, for a good part of an hour. Our street is the turn around spot that mom must have designated to keep them in sight, because they looped around each time, turning back just to the right of the frame and going back up the street, in about a 90 second loop.
For an hour.
Going off the rails on a crazy train with the doppler effect in that screechy I'm-shouting-over-the-jet-engine-sound-so-everyone-in-a-ten-mile-radius-can-hear-me little boy voice.
For.an.hour.
Mental wounds not healing is right.
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