Something Clever to Say.

 Next time, remind your hairdresser to open her damn eyes. Or maybe you caused it. Maybe you did it with your scissors and now you must feel stupid. From black men to little white girls, if the house is raided we're all headed for jail. I bet the prison cells have more heat than this bedroom in the sky. "The ink will bring her home"--that was a fucking lie. But it's a baby's world and there's no room for full grown apathy. I'm going home, you're crazy.

At one oh eight, the walls will shake and the foundation itself will crumble. And you'll be stumbling, tumbling along and I'll be mumbling I'm wrong. You were absolutely and unmistakably right. I don't need you to have life, my little dose of reality, my coaxing fatality, the love who fucked my sexuality. Let's quit pretending we're facetious. Let's ignore an attempt to discuss. I hate your hair. No, really, I do. It looks horrible on you. 

You're such a conformist, you're conforming to nonconformity in it's enormity. You can't be unique in uniformity, sweetie, it's disorderly. You're too straight for curly, and it's concerning how shallow the deep end has drained. You left me unexplained as I tried to save your name in the face of administration's aims. I still loved you.

Bolivian Roulette everyday is now an overdramatic cliche. And to everyone else's uncanny dismay, we only found canny disarray on the basis of your steeple from the ceiling-dwelling people we created in pen way back then. 

I'm not afraid, I'm afraid. I climbed above the palisade and watched you in the promenade. I sit upon the colonnade while you parade a tragic crusade away. I'd trade. I'd give anything to have the memories fade today. I've come to a conclusion throughout the confusion: it's impossible to forget Krystal Jeannette. Unless you've a mind for wary. I'm lucky.

It's too much work to miss you, to much effort to hate you, to much care involved to care. You know that place between The collector and the collected? I'm there.

We am. We am imported. We are. We are incapable. We were. We were insatiable. We can. We can apologize. No, we can't, we're insane. Ha ha, we always have been. 

And today we've made a friend. Her name is kickboxing kate. She's a ninja-vicious fluffy puppy with brown fur and green shirts that are too tight for appropriate. Kickboxing kate dates Manic Matt who is a bunny-cat. He's got a nasty habit of forgetting he's a rabbit. They've battled a shiny rhinoceros with necrophiliac tendencies based on his lack of childhood dependencies. In their pharmaceutical land, the Quail and the enormous black panther walk hand-in-hand. You'd think they owned the place. But Kickboxing Kate always saves the day. Often joins her is her mousy cousin, Mouse. Mouse has complex with cats which is why she avoids Manic Matt who is not a cat, but indeed a rabbit with a nasty habit of forgetting he's a rabbit, it happens. There is an ostrich, as well, named Alfred Dufrell and he's got a gun secure in his wing, we think. He wears a baseball cap to tap three times if he thinks he sees a crime. And Shiny Rhino will go with the hyena albino to check out the coast which is clear. 

I've worked in the jungle for about a year and have yet to turn into an Animal. So there.