My sister was gnarly. She moved out at 16 when I was only 9 or so. All grown up, they said. I thought she was the coolest. And she was. She would pick me up and take me out for pizza in her boyfriend’s car and smoke cigarettes and play punk rock. When things took a sour turn, she came back home to my parent’s welcoming arms. She brought the gnarliest old record collection with her. I still remember her ex-boyfriend coming over and arguing about whose record was whose as they divied up the stack. He was trying to cherry-pick his favorites. She wasn’t having it. “No. I stole that one myself.” My ten year old innocent jaw dropped. After they got that sorted out, my brother and I began to explore these plastic discs. He found heavy metal. I found punk rock. All of it from before our time. And all of it sounded best loud. She really was the coolest. I love you Heather.
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