A.G.E's Joint

 Do you realize You don't have a story Even though you thought you did You went on a road trip To find a busker To find  When the music hit you You found No old guitars Only cheap jewelry Thrift store clothes And distant memories.

 Chinka...chinka....chinka....chinka The two guys were really into the ping-pong battle.  I'm still trying to come up with a logline, much less a premise, for a story. Am I missing something?  WHACK!! The short guy finally got one by his opponent.  I see the thread about the House Speaker I don't get political, usually. It's a dead end street.  Maybe I'll go to Starbucks. It will be quieter. 

The phone chirped. Daddy was drunk. Could she crash at his place? It had happened before. He replied without thinking.  A modern version of Belinda Carlisle, she was pleasingly thick, bleach blonde hair restrained with a butterfly barrette. The nose ring was an afterthought of rebellion. A monstrosity of a purse was slung over her shoulder. It could pack enough stuff to keep her for days. Tonight was going to be different. It would be a vacation of a different sort and he’d hang for it. The remark came out almost involuntarily. All his life, he had gone by the mantra "I can't fix that".It allowed him to miss more than one female trainwreck. He could never figure out why she was different. The bio-units were not deserving of the title parents. On the surface, it looked like a typical upper middle class family, nice house in a pretentious subdivision, nice cars in the garage. Dad, when he was around, was drunk or high. Mom lived in her own little world, denying her precious