The sour cream soured quickly this time. I found it and the liquid had seeped up to the top. Can we be happy? Can we be happy, I thought. My hay-colored hair has gone underground for the winter, where the turtles are happier then. One would think.

“I liked it longer. When will it be longer again?” The inquiry wrung the blood out of my heart. I looked at the white-ish liquid.
I find that the only thing that inspires me these days is the battery life on my laptop. You said that two people speaking together say meaningless things in an attempt to reconcile their vanity.

But they’re not meaningless (no)things. They’re just mean. Listening is the perfect knead on that knot of narcissism – that one you wish I would shut up about already – there in the part of my back that’s shaped like a cello.
Balmy Tuesdays turn calendar pages into ephemeral nonsense and leave me remembering that my mother gave me “the talk,” or she tried. But she didn’t give me the “love talk.” Not THAT one. I felt the grass beneath my feet on my own.

And the pebble stands alone. La-la-la-la-la.

Have a look at me. Put your ear up. There are secrets in my mouth. When I was a little tiny baby they began to bead up on my tongue. I bet you didn’t know where your sense of taste began.

I am here beating the words out of the keys, listening to the Beach Boys, “The Girls on the Beach.” I used to be one, but you know what my problem is? It’s my pallor … faded to an insatiable craving for the answer choice “all of the above.”

Stare back at me when you walk away. Realize that you fascinate me.