Today I want to talk about the noise inside my head. The static, the love songs, the hard ons and half hard ons. The sentences that are too good to write down, too ephemeral, too slow mo, too cell-dividingly mind-blowingly beautiful. There are the soldiers, the half-wits, the airline attendants. These are the emergency exits. The girl who sat alone by the windows in sixth grade and made herself a target when she confessed she flossed but didn’t brush. The girl at the Verizon store about to go to South Africa with her boyfriend. Is your dog friendly? Is your mother friendly? Do you prefer W.B. Mason to Staples? John or Paul? If I fell in love with you. The taffy is stretching. You are small, medium, large. Things don’t happen for a reason. You don’t want to die a lot. You’re welcome, mother fucker. How many times do you use a disposable razor? How many pages is your screenplay? How old is Adele? Why does Kathy hate me? What happens when all the leaves are blown from Washington Avenue and the lawns looks like putting greens. And a full moon lights the way for angry deer who would kill you if they could catch you.
What’s inside yours?
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