The neon glare of the Shell station reflects off my spandex leggings as I stare at the pump, horrified to see gas creeping up to a dollar nineteen per gallon while the radio blares that haunting synth-heavy intro to *When Doves Cry*. Between the rising cost of bread and these headlines about Ferraro’s religious gaffes, I feel like the world is unraveling right under my oversized sweatshirt.
I adjust my headband and glance at the shadows stretching across the pavement, half-expecting a ghost to jump out—who you gonna call when even the grocery bill feels like a haunting? Grounding myself, I grip my keys and try to ignore the expensive flash of new Transformers in the shop window, wondering how anyone affords to live in this neon-soaked fever dream.
Memories from that day
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