start a war if you'd like.

I read a book on pop art, and write down the names of the artists and paintings I like the most on a piece of free newspaper. I often wish I were a boy. Or maybe I just often wish I owned his collection of cardigans and sweaters. He wears a tie. I see your bass player a block from here. I recognize his shuffle and accessories. He wouldn't recognize me and I bask in it. Thirty seconds before we leave the truck, I'm blinded by that clip of ours. Pools of sweat, ripped them apart, and scolded me. I tear off my wig (laughter), and choose the mane. Not really a figure of speech. I am a lion, backcombing, scowling at my reflection in the tinted window of a shiny black sports car. There are three boys pissing in this parking lot right now. The way a musician moves his body on stage, the faces he makes, his neck, his fingers, and his back, it's looks exactly the same in the bedroom, without fail. He is trying to kill me. I am being cut open slowly from my navel to my throat. Avarice is the root of all evil. The sun is coming up and I think someone is watching me. I am late and half blind. Eight pairs of sunglasses and a glass vase of jewlery. We are proud of ourselves. I must have left it on the floor when we were sifting through your drawers. I exhale and she screams with joy. The gorgeous one flies south and I bought the last of it. These things can easily go unnoticed by me. I had been listening to the Promise Ring for six years and only learned three months ago that the singer has a speech impediment. Potential blackmail. I name my new dress Cleavage Town. I smell like a candy store. He writes "nice legs' on my window. Throw up my hands, she irons for him. I drink half a bottle of wine. I wouldn't be upset, but I never expect anything of anybody. Slow down, Mister, my girlfriend is in heels. I think I'm being stalked and I want my hands held. I want to tell her to change her phone number. and I want to switch, because I want to see tears. Tomorrow, our mutual friends will call to tell you the lioness from Cleavage Town is a bitch. Black hair bigger than a hearse, I hate it here. and I don't understand how I've left the house without a sharpie. I remind the place I'm blonde and act oblivious. Soaking wet. Come downstairs. I just want to hold him. I must be really drunk. I wonder if there is a constant. It's possible that I'm too self absorbed, flitting around like a hummingbird and clinging for my life, to introduce myself. Or remember. I hope nobody remembers me. A girl with nice eyelashes thinks I don't notice that she feels incredibly out of place. I want her to open like a lotus and bleed out in the bathroom. I flirt with her name. I cannot fix when drugged so I dissociate. I think they steal something. I lucid dream and he wants to come. Van Halen and a tutu. My glass is bigger than my face. I hold it with two hands and pretend to drink from it. I'm growling. Some guy totally thinks he's Andy Warhol. Bob Dylan is usually here. And sad Chelsea girls, who spend too long in the mirror imperfecting themselves. I didn't bring my camera anyway. She draws a piece of paper from her beaver hat, and someone's illustrated my breasts. I am in love. I've studied faces. We answer in unison. Wait, I do remember your name. I have glass in my feet. And if he was anybody else, I wouldn't have let him eat my candy. I smell like blueberry muffins. Avarice is the root of all evil. Good plan, but I'm taking my keys. I can't find you.