September 10th, 2002

you soft and lonely, you lost and lonely...

I wore my shoes without socks.
My feet are in pain.
Fire and ice.
Water and wine.
The bottoms are all blistered up.
I can not walk anymore.
I needed someone to carry me home.
But you were not there so I took off my own shoes.
I walked on the hot knives.
I put my feet in the butter.
Now I sit, trying to keep the weight off.
If I sit here long enough, I might waste away.
And then where would we be?

Me: "Yes indeed, do you realize that I am kind of butch"
Mother: "I realize that I should have named you butch"
Both of us kidding, both of us laugh.
The girl with the overly processed hair wants to kill me.
And I laughed in her face.
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