Slow Curtain. The End.

twit twat twitter

She dreams in bits and pixels of suncoast masters posturing to the shadows and cantankerous lollies who lean too close to their waxlip sugar daddy salivating in syllables "twit twat twitter." She turns her skin to a leaf well worn and she shim sham shimmy's between a glass of wine and a thought half bated.

Reality Show

sleep. overrated. overheard.

“Go. Go. You don’t give a shit what happens to me. I’ll die tonight and you don’t care. Go. Go. I’m going to kill myself for you. I’m going to kill myself for you. I’m going to kill myself for you! You’ll live your whole life knowing that I killed myself for you. You’re such a nimrod.” – Claire, 4am, under my window, NYC.

reaction

8am. Walk of shame. Last nights clothes, an evening of sludge on your teeth, make up smeared, and you forgot your sunglasses. You make your way through the subway car and to your surprise and delight find the one available seat in the corner. The squeeze into the seat and find your ass drowning in a puddle of air conditioner drippings – the train is traveling express from 59th to 125th.

reaction

Rush hour. Crowded, pressed up against each other so tightly no one has to hold the railing. You are absent mindedly blowing bubbles with two pieces of trident peppermint (no small feat) when the bus jerks and woman in front of you steps on your sandled foot. She turns unexpectedly and suddenly, to apologize, unfortunately taking with her your bubble and wad of gum lodged in the back of her blowout.

reaction

You are emerging from the miniscule bathroom in a local dive bar where you just succeeded in peeing on the back of your jeans (you didn’t squat far enough/you didn’t pull your pants low enough) and walked into the middle of a crowded pool tournament where your name has just been called and you are handed the pool cue.