Personal Narrative Essay-Stink-A-Bho Story

Jig-jolly-gee, jig-jolly-joo, jig-a-jig-a-jig-a-jig-BOO! Jig-a-jig-a-jig-a-jig-BOO! Stink-a-Stink-a-Stink-a-Stink-STOO!

This limerick is my hell. My never-ending chorus, my purgatory, my life with Lana.

She sings this taunting schoolgirl chant to Kailey, her dog. I pretend to do my homework.

I remember when I was 21 years old—it seems as distant now as a forgotten dream.

I had awoken on a dusty bus stop bench near a busy street corner at dawn. Blinding white light singed my eyes and I could see only pale shadows of people busily passing me. I felt a dull ache in my skull.

"Why do I do this to myself?" I sat up slowly and set my quivering feet to the ground. My head bowed to my knees, I breathed a deep sigh.

An old Mexican woman hit me with her bag. "San Ysidro?"

I 'll still have to find a way to the sprawling Marine Corps Base I called home.

I could stow away on the trolley to downtown San Diego then, maybe, tell the Greyhound driver my wallet was stolen and hope he’d feel sympathy for me.

It 's all I can do.

There’s no one.

If I got arrested, a Tijuana prison, I would imagine: fingers broken by guards, lying in feces on a floor at night, food laden with hepatitis or worse.

No, I had to think about making it.

I could recognize the buildings now; we’re almost to Revolucion Street.

The summer air oppressively smothers the back of my neck; sweat dribbles down my brow and stings my eyes. I feel electric panic pulse through my spine.

My leaden arm reaches for the door handle, "Right here 's fine, man," I falter.

Not waiting for the cab to stop, I burst through the passenger door. Frantically, I sprinted on the air two inches above the asphalt. Breakneck. Thunderclap. I ran like rain in a storm.

I’m pulled back to this couch in Kenwood. Lana’s staring at me, “You’re drifting again.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about that Central Asia test this Friday,” I sigh.

“Uh-huh,” she raises her eyebrow.

I close my laptop and grab my pack of cigarettes from