The best thing about spending a bijillion dollars on lacy underwear is that moment when you've put it all on, every bra and thong at the same time. You're sitting on your bed, poking your thighs deciding if you should even bother standing up to grab headphones so you can fall blissfully away into unawareness listening to the kooks, or if you should try crying and masturbating to your roommates current song choice, holiday inn. At the hotel motel wah wah. You choose headphones because, shitty dance music from several years ago.
So there you are, alone, laying down, mascara smudged all over your cheek and pillowcase. You are a new shade of desperate today. As your body prepares itself to start bleeding as womens bodies do, and in underwear that nobody cares about, will see, want torip off with their teeth, throw across the room, park, car. As your phone lays beside you, lifeless cool silver whose function as a bootycall receptor has become defunct. As your roommate switches to smooth jazz and your iPod dies, charger out of reach, as your body changes shape and function, clothes eroding and reappearing, as you stretch and expand, as the cool smooth stream of gin and beer and vodcrans trickles its way inside of you, altering your insides. as your liver and heart, hand in hand with your moral composition transform into something new, leaving the archaic ideal of health as a distant memory.
As the cats, the cloying and putrid liveliness of the cats, breeding and dying around you.
As you turn 32, you remain this way, alone.
