When are you going to do something about these terrible picked up random books that are now stuck on your library shelf. And awaiting to be left behind.
Stranger; “What did you dream about last night.”
Me; “I was standing in the kitchen when suddenly my throat started to regurgitate a handful of someone’s hair like nobody’s business.”
Stranger; “Where are your parents.”
Me; “We found you in the trash.”
When you are over thirty and trying still to tease pedophiles.
When your voice tone starts to level and match your brain cells; instant therapy.
The innocence of a parasite; a visual narcotic—an ex addict and consumer shamed alright.
“Let me pot-pourri sexual obsession and publicity after shooting a skank and tagging it money art.”