Rock's Bottom Line

Braiding twigs, straw, smoke and mirrors together I made a life. I thought that I could run a little faster than my shadow, but as we all know shadows are tricky and have a way of leaping from behind bushes, scaring horses, exposing a chinked chimera fastened with duck-tape and putty. Now exposed my shadow feels better and is doing a great job making me work harder to have less.

I convinced myself that I need a truck—a big fat fuel monster to haul horses to expensive events where their coats would glisten in the sun and my boots would be polished mirrors—with some hesitation my bank said okay, I with no hesitation said yes. I told them, hey no problem, I've got this and I pretended that it would. But now, oh now the pain of a beast with no hope for resolve, gulping fuel I can little afford. It is my own little budget ceiling and I have hit it.

The plan is simple--sell the beastly truck for pennies on the dollar--take the hit of a poorly invested venture and add in the depreciation and I'm talking thousands of dollars lost. But, that's what it is now, people everywhere have lost thousands of dollars, I am not alone on the Titanic.

But no one wants a truck a big beastly truck. Especially now and especially not from a young lady who can barley put boots on. No it's not that, what it really is is that it's not no one who buys trucks. Men buy trucks and my flitzing floating voice over the digital wires throw them into a state of shattered world view and no one with a shattered world view spends money on a truck.

So now, what now? Maybe I'll start advertising, 'this rig is being sold by a lady,' or as my brother kindly suggested pose in a camo bikini on the hood of the truck, or maybe just put my husbands phone number on the add, because at this point the sexism is not the point of the bottom line.