I am strapping on my rockin’ quad-skates; tightening the chin strap on the stoopid fresh, retro gold, glitter helmet that I *DID NOT* set back down on the table and abandon because of the exorbitant price tag at the sidewalk flea market on Houston Street. I’m adjusting my black and gold fishnets and accounting for all my gear – including a wicked mouth-guard – and am NOW… READY… To JAM!
Fishnet-burns and hot-laps be damned, whip me past the offensive and fire me up to knock some bitches down. I’ve got a WICKED hip-check… BOOM!!
Yeah, I daydream. Continue reading