Lucky Like Beewax, Bacterial Infections, Bad Music

She's singing pretty to the elephant in the tub, "your claw feet are like flowers and organic sugar is in the bottom of my bowl." I've got to stand in the doorway on suicide watch, talking like someone is carrying a grand piano up the stairs, "eassy, eassy, okay okay, careful now!" I've got great suggestions on how to waste your time and eat two bowls of cheerios, round rings, tiny, crunchy, soggy, metal spoon, before its nine. I don't eat after nine. Unless its a special occasion, or I've had a few beers, or he's made me feel extra pretty or she's singing, "your claw feet are like flowers and organic sugar is in the bottom of my bowl."
Goddamn! its an exclamation, like they just saw a priest and a nun frenching in the confession box. And at least they'd gone to the right place, but my hair is too long, their saying, its a little strange, they are confessing, like they are afraid it might attack them, like I've got a wild animal resting on my head, and I condition it to look real nice but it still might bite you dead, or constrict around you till you don't breathe and can't eat two bowls of cheerios for dinner, like there is nothing else in the house. Like you don't have hot dogs or rice or sentimental candies. One lonely nipple, sitting in the fridge, next to beers. One lonely nipple.
He's got a house and will have babies long before I do, like he stole my life plan and I'm left with deadlines and somedays, and wonderful weekends, crumby weeks, pushing through school like I've got a personal mission to save the world from ignorance, and all I want is to go to Mexico and touch ruins with and bitch about misquitoes, while he writes about the heat and the tiny mexican boy who sold in a sombraro.
Shit.
Mom called to reaffirm that I have no money. Thank you, yes, aware, yes, understood, groceries will consist of milk, eggs, bread and sucking balls. I made a felt finger puppet named happiness and pummeled him against my sister's face repeatedly, with a high pitch squeal of joy, that wasn't at all real or interesting, but distracting. Like I'm on suicide watch, and they're bringing the heavy piano down the stairs.
I want to tell her, men aren't worth the trouble. But she says I don't got no right, and puts Summer Skin back on. But no man IS worth it. Not the suffering and worry, at least. Especially in unrequited situations, where you're completely indisposible, like a styrofoam bowl, lasting long enough for two helping of cheerios, and organic sugar solid at the bottom.
Don't tell me what I gotta do, yellow teeth, sad second place for change and new dogs, like we'd ever have the money to feed ourselves, let alone it, and I'm not worth what debt I've gained. Like you'll leave me at the alter when you realize I come with a dark cloud of ever looming debt. And I'll live at home and scratch myself to skinless and watch my cat die, and make dinner for my family, because mom hates cooking, and you know what. You know what? I'd like to illustrate kids books, goddamnit, I'd love to do pictures for kids books.
Herbert Finklemen and his balloon house, with his balloon dog.
They turn to zombies in my dreams, where escape plans are futile and the animals catch the disease. But right before bed, we sing nursery rhymes and repeat a million times, I love you, like it just might evaporate before it sinks into our brains.
Superman hangs off me, the empty space you use to fill.