I’m sixteen again.My red and fuschia hair is twirled up into Sailor Moon knots to complement my pink fuzz faux chanel suit, my signature club look for that year.My friends and I all look like something out of Party Monster.These were the halcion days of chemically fueled innocence.The bachannal was a kind of rave sesame street, where bad things didn’t happen to good people unless they were dumb and greedy and did to much without sharing.We piled into my noble chariot(a1989 Isuza I-mark)named Buttweeda.As I started the well worn path between my house and our stomping grounds, oak lined Canal Street magicked itself into the gray expanse of I-10 .The highway was full of swoops and dips, enough to drive my heart into my throat. The road ways acrobatics become more and more pronounced.We are poised on the brink of destruction, I am standing on the brake, but Buttweeda doesn’t respond.Now the highway becomes a paved rollercoaster track and still we careen on to certain destruction never quite reaching it…