Cruising on a Sunday afternoon...

... to the mall around the corner.

I had a car once. I sold it for dope.

I had a motorcycle too. See above.

I’ve never been into car culture anyway. In fact, I kind of hate cars. And if you drive a pickup truck, the onus is on you to prove that you’re not a dick.

On Sunday, I drove a green Jaguar to the mall. With the top down. Make no mistake. These days, I’m a pauper. But a family friend named Joy was visiting. I had to run some errands.

“Want to take my car?” Joy asked, as if it wasn’t a massive deal.

“The Jag?”

“Why not?”

Umm… let’s see… why not? Well, maybe because I’m... me.

Not so long ago, my mom wouldn’t let me borrow her car to pick up a pizza — unless I reported in when I arrived at the restaurant, and when I was leaving.

I didn’t trust myself either. Obvious flight risk.

Fast forward to me behind the leather-bound wheel of a classic Jaguar convertible. Lady Gaga was on the radio. It didn’t matter that I was wearing my crooked dollar-store sunglasses. Or that the licence plate read something like, ‘Joy’s Toy’ — broadcasting to the world that I was a kept man.

The only thing that mattered was that someone trusted me with a green Jaguar convertible.

It wasn’t a long drive — to the mall around the corner. Just enough time for me to recall a trip to Costco with my mom. It was only days into my recovery. I had just come from a place where the electricity had been cut for months, and a sign on the fridge read, ‘DO NOT OPEN.’

That day, everything at Costco seemed wasteful and vulgar. The people too.

Was this what my family expected of me? To become the kind of respectable citizen who bought his toilet paper in 48-roll bales? Normal life was gross. Please, just let me get back to being a weirdo.

In the Jag on the way home, I didn’t think so much of the past. Mostly, I paid attention to how the wind felt against my skin, the smoothness of the steering wheel — and how cool it was to be in this strange little cockpit, straddling an engine that actually purred.

“Don’t call my name, don’t call my name, Alejandro…”

What a great song. Why did I ever think it was trash?

For that matter, why did I ever think I was?

It probably had something to do with how I saw myself — as someone who didn’t deserve the things Normal people took for granted. But today, in the sideview mirror, I caught a glimpse of someone different. Someone I was starting to maybe like — surrounded by people who may also like me. And someone who wouldn’t take anything for granted again. Not even myself.

Or these cheap sunglasses.

“I’m not your babe, I’m not your babe, Fernando…”

Okay, this song does actually suck.

But I will fight you if you think this one does: