Super

I’m super pretty and I don’t know why.

That’s the lyric cycling in my head right now, shaming, blaming, containing, restraining, reframing, and draining me into my drink.

And then the key tumbling the front door lock echoing down the hall. The whole front cover’s an ad for Windows Eight, he steps in with. I guess I do know what he means when I was going to say that I didn’t, but a girlfriend is a girlfriend after all who picks up the conversation where you left it last time, and I did try to buy a sign at the parcel place today to hang on the box saying no flyers please, but there was none to buy so I just took my parcel politely and left, which I do, and do sudden and well. So I know it’s a flyer he means, that’s the point.

I’m super pretty and I don’t know why.

Copyright infringement can and may include remembering that movie you saw and that song in your head, and you will likely be mowed down on the crosswalk even wearing reflectors on your arms and head, by a copy of you in a truck or a bus or a car in the sub-rainy dusk on your way to the place of importance that is the definition of meaning in life, what you currently do to prove you’re alive in a truck or a walk or a bus or a dance on the way to your life in the sub-rainy dark.

*note: the real lyric goes, “I’m sitting pretty,” but that’s even harder to discern than it is to admit, and anyway I do know why.

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About owl

Disordered, reckless, persevering.
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