Perhaps you do not have the Stones, but I do.

I bought the Stones back in the day, when such a thing was not considered cool. I kept it fresh by storing it in the refrigerator where it was left lying flat atop the old man's numerous cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Some nights the cigarette burns on my arms would plague me like an unfinished Keith Richards solo. Those are the days my dreams lead me to.

And there was a dog. A well-trained golden retriever, who nevertheless retrieved nothing worth having--just a pale broken antler from the woods, and one time he found a dead chipmunk. Such are my broken memories.

But I had the Stones, man. I played the Stones. No rolling stone ever caught one bit of moss at my place, no matter how high up toward the hem of my sleeveless shirt that line of cigarette burns crawled.

This was when life felt new!

*Author's note: apologies, friends, this post is fictional and should have been announced as such.