The lady who lives down the street has a dog that won’t stop running at me when I drive past. Or the next guy. Or the next. He lunges and the leash tugs, and every time I swear he’s about to break free and make a mad dash straight to hell. I started rolling down the windows. I thought maybe if I heard him barking, it wouldn’t get me quite as good. It hasn’t helped. It just makes the jump-scare more dramatic.

I get it on every trip to work and class. The “f**k you” lunge. I can’t catch a break. The universe basks in the swerve that I make to the other lane. Maybe if the lady would buy a shorter leash or give away the dog, things would get easier. Maybe if the campus would fold into a rose until it looked only like a tight bud hidden away from everything, maybe then I could get some sleep. Maybe if the Earth would pause and yawn. If something would help. Maybe then I could do it right. I could write something. I could quiet down. Stop my cells from vibrating so quickly. Stop pacing.

It’s all hella Coachella, but without the sunshine or flowers in your hair. Without the half-naked men and women. Without the VIP passes that can take you to the better side of the fence. The side without the dog or the ache. A side with tequila and giant pool floats in the shapes of flamingos.

I once saw a man with a flamingo tattoo on his calf passed out next to the creek outside of town. The same creek that houses an entire pack of rats, a rotting deer, an occasional cluster of beer cans and a few jugs of Tide. I think he was the closest to Coachella any of us have ever been. Each of us like those baby turtles on Discovery Channel that slide as fast as they can into a sea where they inevitably disappear for years or die. Spending those concert tickets on gas money to drive past the dogs and the people that could care less about the fear.

Watching others dance in the desert under the stars and the lights while we close our eyes and try to swim as far as we can into what comes next.