I owe so many words.
I owe words to entire tours from last year that never went commemorated, to things that only happened weeks ago.
But right now, I’m thinking about my weekend.
A year ago—almost exactly—I started talking to Jesse Daniel Edwards about coming to my town. Time passed as it did. He toured with his family band, “L.A. Edwards,” what seemed like almost constantly. I asked later, and he said he was playing overseas maybe six months out of this year.
I don’t sleep well. Ever. One night this summer as I was not sleeping, I started thinking again about bringing him here. I messaged him that morning: I’m serious. Music might be the only thing I’m ever deadly serious about. Talks began again in earnest. Dialing down on a date. September was still ungodly hot in Texas. October the band is out again for most of the month. I already took time off in November to see Dar Williams in Dallas and Austin, wouldn’t that match up well? Take an entire week off just for music?
Yes…!!!
My Dar Willams shows were on the 19th and 20th, so the 22nd and 23rd were decided on for the big Abilene debut.
Unknown to me, this date would also be the only time I could have chosen this entire year that would conflict with Salim and my Galactic home-away-from-home. It wasn’t firmed up at the time, but Salim’s plan was Buttercup coming to record at Pleasantry and a show to happen during their stay.
I had no idea what to expect. I have been in touch with Jesse since we met at Salim’s in November of 2022. Husband and I tripped to see him all the way over in TN twice, but as far as in-person conversation? 2 sentences maybe? One of those being that existence might very well be a simulation and we are all on a stasis-ship in a decaying orbit. Maybe the benevolent aliens that were saving us got distracted and wandered away.
Honestly, I don’t even remember. And it’s fair to say in most situations that we don’t remember what was said, we remember how it made us feel.
If you spend your formative years being told, “You’re weird” – no matter the tone of voice: jeering, disdain, affection, wonder – you either run away from it or toward it. I fully embrace my status. There was a woman at church when I was a kid who called me “Miss Original” and I’ve always sought to make her proud.
I watched an L.A. Edwards interview in which Jesse’s bandleader-brother said something to the effect of, “Maybe that’s why we’re all weird.” My heart leaped; and soared. Is someone else in this tribe? I could only hope.
Cosmic Cowboy to the Rescue
The two Abilene shows would be my house and Sunnhaus Brewing – the place Salim played when he was here in February (checks notes) of *this* year (how has this year already been ten years long???) Brandon Carr (aka the Cosmic Cowboy – check him out!) was the liaison for Salim’s show so I asked him pretty much the night Salim played, if I get Jesse here, can he have a show?
Yes.
So, I started organizing things. Slowly pulling different threads together.
A strategy here, a logistic there.
I’d think of something to ask, check the L.A. Edwards website: ah, Italy tonight.
At some point, the tour was over, but the last response I got was a hearty salutation from Sweden. Not knowing any different, I assume maybe he wanted to see windmills or tulips or whatever footloose, freewheeling, artist-types do (and oh my GOD that’s HOLLAND… never mind…) Nope, recording – I found out later.
It’s Who You Know
Here again, I must stop and sing the praises of the Sunnhaus. They don’t know me, they don’t know Jesse. Brandon knows that I know Salim and Salim knows Jesse (and now, bless his heart, Brandon also knows that I am probably the most anxiety-prone person he will ever meet.) They not only hosted the show, but Brandon loaned Jesse his guitar to play for both it and my house show and they arranged to have my favorite food truck there for the performance (the Toasted Traveler, y’all, accept NO substitutes!)
I sit here now, trying to arrange my thoughts about the week. I accomplished everything I meant to for November. It’s a lot to take in and my November 9th Nourallah//Newquist Years-in-the-Making Concert (Summit?) will require a completely separate entry.
I hit both Dar Willliams shows even though I wanted to back out. I purchased pairs for both dates, not realizing my Dar Williams buddy & oldest partner in crime – the one who got me into Dar – moved away years ago. Husband had to work, but I was able to see Dallas with my cousin, April. April got me into Harry Chapin when we were little so I thought she would like her as I liken Dar to Harry as far as story-songs goes.
I got 30 whole minutes the next day with Salim and the Buttercup gentlemen at Pleasantry while I was trying to decide if I wanted to go to Austin or go home (so much house cleaning… so much executive dysfunction waiting for me at home). I did pick Austin. I wish I hadn’t. The set list was identical right now to the banter. And, Austin, “from hell’s heart I stab at thee” and your diabolical traffic situation.
Ugh.
The Twang is Strong
But I did get a taste for Dar’s opener – Abe Partridge. He’s from Mobile AL so the twang is strong, but it’s not country. He’s a little crazy and obviously, extremely intelligent. The only way I can describe it is biting satire couched in sometimes extremely self-aware parody. He’s got something to say. I recommend exploration.
I blessed merch that night with my presence. I am now totally “that guy,” after our trips with Salim – that saunters up Willem Dafoe-style to say, “I’m something of a merch seller myself.” I got all of Abe’s available vinyl and a giant handful of stickers.
I was able to sleep that night (which never happens) and get out of Austin in a timely fashion – also something I wasn’t banking on.
Cat Distribution
I lost my advantage when I stopped at a convenience store in Goldthwaite (to email Jesse: “You are really coming…right? Would be an interesting variation on the going to school naked dream or the taking a test you never studied for dream. Very unique to me and my hang-up: planning shows where the star doesn’t attend.”) I then proceeded to find a stray cat living in the space between two buildings. Mom is tabby, her two tiny kittens are black and… tortie (my heart’s desire!) I pet her extensively while convincing myself that I don’t have a box or any way to get them in to the car and this would be the absolute wrong time in my life to catnap anyone.
Mom and babies are well fed – the area is littered with cat food cans. If you can’t hole up next to a food establishment, a convenience store that sells cat food and is frequented by suckers like myself seems like the next best thing. They don’t appear ill or in immediate danger so I bid them farewell and head home.
… where I remind Doug that PEOPLE WILL BE IN OUR HOUSE TOMORROW.
And he is genuinely surprised (at some point, the concerts had to switch days as Sunnhaus keeps different hours on Friday than Saturday) at how frantic I am. He didn’t hear me when I communicated the change.
Still, he shrugs it off: there’s still tomorrow.
(Calm, unbothered people… What is this? I’m being genuine. I would love to live my life – even if just for a day – not cranked up to eleven all the fucking time).
So I do clean the next day. And – as if by magic – things come together at the last second. An entire bottle of Febreze on the French reproduction sofa… The house looks clean.
The living room is rearranged and a selection of skulls and bones are placed atop the freshly tuned Acrosonic.
I sent Jesse a picture of his prospective station: we have an… aesthetic.
You’ll see.
And see he does.
My pride and joy – our extensive (“extensive” was the word for last year. This year? Gargantuan? Sweeping? Opulent?) Halloween display is accidentally still up (Husband had bronchitis when it should have come down. We then missed two huge wide storms by the skin of our teeth and only lost one – Mr Mummy – who took a fatal yoga bend and is now in two violent pieces in the front yard).
So. Too late now. My call? Light it up.
The sun goes down and we light up all our ghouls, skellies, and ghosties for one last haunt of the season.
I sit by the window.
I wait.
Just like the first time we had Jimmy Newquist over, I had no contact day of. I can only assume: you are a rock star of your word, you show up.
And he does.
I had no idea which Jesse to expect. As I have written here before, Jesse is expansive… he contains multitudes (“my wardrobe can’t make up its mind, but what else is new?”) Margaritaville Jesse, Labamba (Benny and Joon maybe?) Jesse, Highlander/Castiel/Freddie at Live Aid. Jesse no longer has Instagram, but I watch the band’s account so I could guess. And we get modified Juni Ata. Soft-spoken, grizzled blues man. Slightly longer, more Cat Stevens-y beard.
That’s the explanation I never got to give about the posters I designed for the shows: The image is that of a figure walking the road to perdition with a guitar slung over his shoulder. This – to me – is the progression suggested to me by Jesse’s music so far. Juni Ata was the last vestiges of a wide-eyed, cautiously optimistic youth, journey taken, decent. His most recent two albums – Violensia and Claptrap Venus – are Juni in hell. What’s in hell? A fair. Carnival rides. Not a calliope – a calliope would be full-on madness.
Almost.
More like a roller rink.
Sweaty Sheets and Disappointment
Half of Claptrap Venus (10/18/24) is Juni re-emerging as a demon in a three-piece suit, crooning in to an RKO microphone, the other half sounds like music for a movie soundtrack (listen to “Never Really There” and I dare you not to close your eyes and see the protagonist’s camera angle as he pines for – I don’t know – 90s Meg Ryan… the whole thing dissolves. Awake from a dream in a tangle of sweaty sheets and disappointment.)
It’s like I was never really there.
At some point, talking later, Jesse says he hasn’t yet fully embraced “experimental music” and that made me laugh a little. From my perspective, experimental seems like a logical progression from exactly where he is at this moment.
Experimental seems exactly like what it was to see him (and Gabe Pigg doing something my husband still talks about with wonder – playing drums with one hand and keyboard with the other) in a Chatanooga bar after midnight. The baby version of what would become most of the current album birthed/hauled in by the two of them in workman’s coveralls and the soundman shaking his head and shrugging, “That doesn’t even sound like a human voice.”
These are all thoughts I have as I stand on the porch and watch him approach and, oh my god, he’s got a Disney tote bag because of course he does. If I spent the entire visit, playing “affectation or utility” while in his presence, we’d never get anything done.
(Signs that say “the end is near…again” or “anything nothing helps” or “the future has been canceled”… little, dripping smiley faces – not stickers -looks like pieces of cut out, stuck on paper on an instrument case in Chatanooga… somehow I feel like he won’t mind the giant skulls on the piano.)
Affectation or utility.
Both?
Our House in the Middle of Our Street
He praises the yard display so of course this is the way instantly to my heart. I am very traditional in one sense: very house and home proud… my house just happens to have 15 12 ft monsters in the yard and every square inch inside is covered with band posters or Victorian mourning paraphernalia.
He then tells me – very offhand – that he basically wrote the equivalent of a new album just for the visit. Really? Yes, he says, he started writing about a month ago.
Here is where the time warp starts for me. I have written time and time again about what it’s like living with my particular type of crazy. One of the many things I struggle with is impermanence. Personal impermanence? Emotional impermanence? I can’t even begin to describe it and unless you deal with it too, it sounds like so much… what shall we call it? Malarky? To a well-adjusted mind. The long and short of it: I don’t think I exist. But I also consider myself a logical person so I deal in facts; the concrete.
The concrete fact of the matter is: I bent a huge number of people to my will this weekend. Very similar to directing my Repo! Show 6 years ago: I wanted something so bad; I willed it into being. I manifested something. A positive group hallucination.
And the timeline will never recover (relax – I’m being facetious.)
From the Disney tote is produced Claptrap Venus vinyl and a “not for resale” (what do you call it when it’s a book? I guess we’ll still call it a “test pressing”) copy of Jesse’s future poetry book.
I thought he’d want it back, but he gifts it to me and says there’ll be an official copy later, but he doesn’t know when it will come out.
There is no space to consume poetry at this moment – I tried. Believe me. I could only stare at the pages as people started arriving & talking. But I had a quiet moment the next morning where I was able to sit with it exactly as I wanted – rays caught between the leaves of the big trees in the front yard; light dappled on pages as I read them.
(bliss)
Night one was most of the usual house show crowd… plus, my mother, an appreciator of piano mastery – something Jesse has in spades. This was her first time attending one of my house shows and, as far as I can tell, she was thrilled.
This is where I return to the time warp. It was all too much to take in.
Dissonance?
Not necessarily cognitive.
The graceful, long-fingered hands producing music I’ve never heard. Trying to experience everything at once. New words. Sweet, melodic voice. And he’s here. After a year. He’s in my living room. I wonder when it will occur to me that any of this was real.
For Christmas This Year…
As we communicated in the last several weeks, Jesse offered up “Ads You Can Really Taste” as a possible duet. Well, when I told him how much Eric helped me practice it, he let me sing it entirely as he played guitar.
(I cannot watch myself. Just like hearing your own voice on an answering machine – if I ever knew what I sounded like, I’d never open my mouth again… but documentation exists.)
After the performance, Jesse hung out for a moment, but the reality was: that he was only home from his adventures abroad for two days before coming to Abilene. I can’t even imagine how exhausted he was.
It was agreed we would get coffee in the morning – I’m starting to wonder if “get coffee” isn’t now just a catch-all phrase like how “coke” now encompasses all flavors (s-o-d-a forever, I will never say “coke” unless I actually mean it, but that’s just me). Sunday morning before he left, we both ended up confiding that we don’t like coffee enough to seek it out on its own.
Because of “Ads You Can Really Taste”, one in attendance – mine and Doug’s dear friend of several decades – stated he wasn’t aware of how much I love to sing. So even though he was on the porch and about to leave when he said this, I ushered him back inside and played some U2 songs I’m particularly good at on my little Gretsch Jim Dandy.
Things then turned into an unexpected and delightful jam.
Venus Via Abilene: Day Two
The next day, aiming for a further prospective glimpse into my town, I took Jesse to Mezamiz – ever the hip hangout spot since I was in high school.
He got some sort of coffee drink and I got the chicken salad and potato soup (all ye in the sound of my voice: get their potato soup. It is UNMATCHED in its deliciousness. In fact, get EVERYTHING. I haven’t had anything there yet that wasn’t magnificent.)
And then began the palaver.
We sat on the deck and I wondered vaguely as I got caught in the current of his words: is anyone else hearing this? Or are we all just caught in our customary little worlds? I am the only person who probably would have eavesdropped on a conversation like ours… I’m sure no one else was even aware.
Just as I mentioned before: You will never remember what was said. You will always remember how it made you feel.
I cannot ascribe to it the words I want to because they’ve already been used up and assigned to other, less interesting concepts. But talking to Jesse was confirmation that there are other conscious souls out there concerned about the nature of this life.
I am unendingly lucky – though I also recognize my joys and blessings are as unique to me as my hang-ups and there are people in this world coasting along, not concerned with finding people to talk to & comparing notes as far as the nature of the human experience. I am lucky in that Jesse is not the first open, creative heart to allow me access.
I am starting to form a hypothesis about my artists: is the quality of deep self-awareness part of what spurs the creative drive?
More often than not, it’s painful to be so self-aware, but just like the need to create… when are things like this ever offered as true choices?
A Right to Choose
Choice is a theme for both Jesse and Salim in my impromptu interview. The choice to put down the things that no longer serve you. I acknowledge it’s logical to hope for such, but Jesse corrects this immediately. Doesn’t matter if it’s logical, you can choose to do it or not.
I don’t know what I’m doing when I ask about worry. I guess I’m trying to come up with some sort of formula. These people I look up to so much don’t seem burdened with a great deal of worry. If there’s a secret, maybe someone will be kind enough to tell me.
For Salim it’s bandwidth. The idea is that you cannot give certain thoughts/people/ideas more space or power in your mind than they deserve.
For Jesse, it’s the width of this table. He holds his hands out. His field of worry is a width he can describe with his own hands.
He tells me of a family he was familiar with positioned precariously close to a land border and therefore warfare. They could have chosen every day to worry about annihilation, but energy like that serves them better if the concern is on the health of their land or livestock.
Worry about what is in your power to worry about. That much I have formulated for myself in the past.
Platters that Matter
After Mez, I took him next door to the Record Guys (this marks another anniversary and more proof that I am a cyclical creature as it was a year ago, I decided to set foot back in there after the long story happenings of 2022). We walk around and talk briefly about music. He asks me who was formative in my life (Queen.) He picks up a Chet Baker album and asks me if I like jazz (never really explored).
He concedes he could buy something as there is space in his bag previously occupied by the vinyl now enjoying new homes here. He buys the Chet Baker.
“Kevin, this is my friend Jesse – he’s playing the Sunnhaus tonight.” Kevin holds court for a moment as is his way. Talks about Doug and Doug’s dad and the tire store and the old days. Jesse is as he has appeared this whole time: agreeable, patient, affable. Taking the whole experience in: the mundanity I take for granted that is my daily life. He was in Sweden last week. This week he’s in deepest West Texas and seems to be trying to get as much from the latter experience as the former.
He leaves Violensia and Claptrap Venus with Kevin and as I walk away, I hear Kevin telling the others at the counter, “She knows the coolest people.”
My heart soars.
I do though.
In the parking lot, Jesse hands the Chet Baker record to me, “This is for you.”
We parted ways that afternoon and I realized that, even though I had all these things I wanted to ask him, we talked intently the entire time and I knew nothing more about him (his backstory, I guess you could say) than I did to start with.
I went home and laid on the couch, dozing and listening to the Chet Baker. It’s slower, stripped down, and simpler than what I am used to. But it was lulling and I could hear the sweetness, not quite a croon that would influence Jesse decades down the line.
I truly wish I’d been able to dig further into music with him, but there just wasn’t time: this quiet, mild-mannered (I want to call him a boy in the same way I’d still like to call myself a girl and I’m middle-aged… feelings… feelings…) gentleman who can talk about Nina Simone and Chet Baker, take a breath and then be on to System of a Down (he’s 4 years younger than me which puts us on the same generational footing and yet at times talking to him, he seemed simultaneously so much younger and so much older than a man easing serenely into his fourth decade in a few months.)
Fancy
Time for the Sunnhaus draws close, Doug and I face our evening choices. I described to him roughly what I was thinking about. As I emerge from our bedroom clad thusly, he takes in my cat dress with bright blue similarly patterned tights.
Yes. Matter of fact head nod. Always understanding the assignment, he returns shortly in a corduroy jacket with a bright orange cat & ufo button up underneath. We’ve been doing this for years now – matching up like a neon goth/punk trip to the prom.
Later we stopped for snacks at a convenience store and the couple running the counter complimented us; and wondered what we were up to. I told them our friend was playing a show tonight so we got “fancy.”
They love us for our definition of fancy.
I too love our definition of fancy.
I pick out my spot at the Sunnhaus. Right up front as is my way. I leave Doug there and gravitate towards Jesse who is drinking quietly, thoughtfully at an adjacent table. We launch immediately back into the conversation and for a moment I feel vaguely bad for leaving Doug behind, but I know he’ll be playing on his phone in 30 seconds and won’t even realize.
Reflect in Vincent’s Eyes of China Blue
This time?
Art.
In.
Space…?
If “Starry, Starry Night” (am I Don McLeaning? Is that too many Starrys?) were launched into space tomorrow and no one ever saw it again… is it still art?
If a tree falls, yes, yes, I know.
(I mean to ask my own question, something that tripped me recently. I try to live my life as a compassionate person, but was asked to define “compassion” and was actually at a loss for words.)
No time.
I watch friends trickle in. The other half of my house concert crew appear as well as my brilliant tattoo artist and her beau. My beloved Toasted Traveler is indeed standing tasty sentinel in the courtyard. I order an original and a dipper of tomato soup.
Divine.
Acoustic Rage
I picked an opener for the evening: Abilene’s resident rocker, Danny Jaymes. Danny touts himself as “acoustic rage,” aka (forgive me if I mess this up) “Cash to the Clash” and all points in between. He is The Rocker as consummate professional… the exact opposite of the person I picked for my house show (but that is a rant for another day… and if you’ve already had to deal with him and his lackadaisical ways in the Abilene music scene, you probably already know who I’m talking about.)
Danny warmed us up to perfection.
I don’t have a clue if it was there the whole time or if there was a switch, but at some point, Jesse is wearing a blue Sunnhaus cap. He always seems to have something on in the L.A. Edwards Instagram: fedoras or bucket hats, scarves, bandanas, gimme caps (please, y’all, does anyone besides Stephen King actually call them that?) I think it will be hilarious to see that cap later in a picture of Jesse from some far-off land.
The “hello my name is” sticker on Salim’s guitar, now this cap for Jesse. I made experiences exist. I made moments in time worthy of commemoration.
All part of the weirdness that is my life.
Tonight, Jesse’s cosplay – whether intentional or not – is as one of us. Boots, jeans frayed at the cuffs, and a plaid shirt – his poet’s notebook sticking out of one breast pocket. He looks the part… if that part is moments from striking up “Friends in Low Places.”
“How long does it take to realize you like a television series or that you’re going to read the rest of the book or that someone your friend dragged you to see maybe something about ‘em makes you want to dance; groove out? Time.” Jesse raises his glass to all of us in a toast as he introduces a song called Give it Time, “Can you always afford to be generous? Even if it costs you everything?” Time is all we have, all we lack. More wisdom from unexpected places.
“I can’t think of a single other place in the entire world I’d rather be besides right here with y’all. Thank you for having me into your lovely community,” and then in a flawlessly executed move, Jesse becomes the perfect Southern guest. He might as well have started up a rousing refrain of (clap clap clap) Deep in the Heart of Texas. “I did go by Jay’s BBQ earlier today and WOOOO (yes, he did say woooo) y’all know what to do with that brisket.”
Well, bless your heart.
… in a good way.
We do love our BBQ.
What I did not expect as I sat down front, listening as the beautiful music flowed all around, over me, was… another chance to sing. I thought that was just for my house… so I left my cheat sheet at home.
Jesse beckons me, and urges me to try. So I gracelessly mount the plywood stage and I give it my best. Please, I whisper to him, please sing with me. Because I want this. I’ve wanted to sing with him – not just near him – this whole time; wanted to see what our voices would do intertwined. But also… every single lyric flew straight out of my head in that moment. But we made it and he grinned and it felt beautiful.
Time passed. It’s all we have, but as we already heard, it’s what we lack.
One more.
Play REPTILEEEEEEE
Two more? Please, do something I know, I call. Doug says this instantly made me “Reptile Guy” (what the actual fuck does that mean? Ah, yes, he explains. I’m the guy at every Church show that wants either Reptile or Under the Milky Way.) I think it’s a little more complex than that. When I do ketamine, Salim and Jesse are the voices I want in my head while the world melts. Wanting something familiar seems right.
I’m embarrassed I called out, but it got me the very snarling, angry (as snarling and angry as you can get on an acoustic which – as we know from Danny Jaymes – is still pretty angry) “Nobody’s Problem.” I wasn’t too far out of line to ask though as that song is on the set list Jesse let me have afterwards.
The final song of the evening was My Ship Will Come In.
And then…?
And then it was over.
Jesse handed Brandon’s guitar back over to Sam the proprietor and tried to sneak humbly out of the building (Jesse, sweet friend, take up more space!! You spent the whole time trying to be agreeable and not bother people – the people who care want you to be there. I wanted so much to make even more of a fuss over you, but you wouldn’t let me.)
I grabbed him for a picture in front of the Sunnhaus mural (that was my final two boxes checked: picture and singing with him) and a final round of farewells from Doug and our friends.
Goodnight, Jesse Daniel Edwards, I get one more “coffee” in the morning, yes?
Yes.
Day…? Moment…? Three
I picked the Majestic, but he countered with Monks.
And here is where we both found out we don’t really like coffee.
He got a breve.
Neither of us knew what that actually was.
I told him I thought about what he said: yes, of course, the painting is still art if no one sees it. Even if no one sees it, the act of creation still fulfills its own needs by being executed. Being experienced is only part of the process and some would say barely a necessity.
I told Salim something similar: of course, there will be other albums. What would you do instead? For him, I have picked English teacher and he gets the same exact look on his face that Doug gets when I tell him he needs to be a history teacher… “why on earth?” (eyeroll) You will make another album, write another song, sing, play guitar… whatever… Because that’s who you are and that’s what you need to survive.
We sat outside. There were too many people inside and I can’t concentrate with lots of people talking. Sort of like I said before: I am the person who would eavesdrop. Every single sound happening is always louder than the ones I’m supposed to hear. Even outside, someone is playing 80s music at the storefront across the street.
I *Do* Want to Break Free
I am able to recount a story from my childhood about “I Want to Break Free” and how Queen played such a formative role in my coming online as a thinking, feeling person with my own ideas about morality.
A little later as the conversation continues zooming past, I catch it. I think we were about to dive into life on other planets when I heard it: “I Want to Break Free” playing across the street. I put a hand out to stop Jesse. I have to bring attention to this moment.
“You have good ears. All I can hear is the drum beat.” He says.
Maybe it’s not that I can’t hear. Maybe I hear too much.
That would be about right.
His phone tones. It’s an alarm to remind him to go to the airport.
My heart breaks a little. Never enough time. I quickly pull out the poetry book and ask for an inscription. Something, anything, “thanks for the memories,” I don’t care.
He writes, “art… but in space!” because why not?
I laugh a little as he walks off. My usual internal wars rage between being a creeper and a historian: I snap a picture of him as he steps off the curb to his car. He has no idea what a dramatic figure he cuts on his bright, sunny day.
I put my feet up in the space he vacated. The day is beautiful.
I don’t know what to do so I read a little more from the poetry book:
Your body remembers,
The way,
Even if your spirit,
Lies dismantled,
Strewn across so many
Unreachable places.
He’s barely out of sight, but I shoot him one last message as he’s still in my town, breathing my air, “You’re exactly as weird as I hoped you’d be and I cherished every minute.”
Come back soon, Jesse Daniel Edwards.
Come back soon.
