He’s feeding the gift horse / Paranoid discourse

and by the way, I wear jeans too, and I’ll fuck that white girl, absolutely, from the commercial, the camera trails her on the beach, she’s smiling, now she’s hiding behind her hands . . . 

They put her flyer on their mailboxes and look at me like she’s dead.

I pull them apart like a harried cashier, rub the magenta-lined ones on my face, ink my cheeks with toxic blush.

You’re probably thinking these things happened a very long time ago, but as a matter of fact it was just yesterday, and yet somehow we are all old and married with children now, even the former supermodel

My boy on the boulevard bubbling.
Triple wick rip tide in my mind.

He never notices my tears.

Seeing a picture of my tits online didn’t bother me as much as it should have. 

With snot running down my chin, weeping, I allowed myself to entertain the possibility that this key situation would go on forever.

sipping from a can of lukewarm non-alcoholic PBR in between the routine 

He said everyone is going to die except us
 

I tried to remember something my dad told me about Luis Aparicio after Ozzie Guillen made an error in a game in 1991.

Your date’s cologne smells like rancid wine, which should be a good enough reason to bail, but it’s only hour two and you’ve made a commitment.

He doesn’t seem to think I’m a handful. I can tell by his texts.

Well, it’s happened
there is a baby
I just found out 
and he is precious

there is a baby now
and the father is handsome
he has a Sherpa-like
quality that gives me calm

I am comforted:
he

I have to believe that what I am writing — what I am living through — means something.

The Utah girls were already asleep. Unlike me, they were going home in a few days.

The Marathon was born out of a legend about a fifth-century Greek messenger named Philippides who ran 26.2 miles without stopping to deliver a message that the Greeks had defeated the Persians in battle.

To shut down and cool off like my laptop
All I need is wind and weed

She started to ride by his Marigny shotgun until he came out and became her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, a chef who meets with narcotics anonymously, orchestrates impromptu dinners in the backyard of a liquor store. 

And then Greta. I found her crawling toward the lake, on fire.

“To be inside of someone's mind has to be the sexiest thing in the world.”

There is no hotel breakfast. No air conditioning. No Tour Guide singing in the next room.

I was still pouting over hometown boy, and neck-deep in an article about foiled wallpaper when I got a Facebook message from Preston. Could we get together? 

He puts down his High Life. His pale hand drifts across the table toward mine

Bliss can flip into alienation and back into elation, adding to the teasing uncertainty of identity.