Coke times, and summer block parties. My dad’s best barbecue chicken. I miss those days, when all I had to think about was whether the boy across the street liked me. (Answer: he did. Until he didn’t. Because you’re a whore, like your mother.)
We are debris, washed up underneath their beautiful Japanese glass floats, starfish, and black pearls. The invisible players behind this screen, writing awful movies and that insipid apple.com commercial interrupting Lady Gaga all the time on YouTube.
We’ve been made. In the image of the next “It” couple. But somehow, I slipped through the cracks. Rippling like lava. Uncomfortably loud, spitting cheesy everything bagel when I talk. The face of your latest enemy, depending on the war du jour.
Politics and fucking. Chicks and cars.
Glazed donuts and wood-fired pizza.
One more sourdough loaf, then I’ll be ready to leave this place, and these heartless people.