The Good Old Days of Chloroform and Ether Sweet

Well, maybe not you. This girl on TV, maybe. Maybe not. I bet Emily Dickinson was never authorial constipated. I am really not doing well in this ennui. It's suddenly ennui, too. It's come upon me today, this Friday. I don't know.

Okay. So we take the turn. I don't want to suffer myself, so I won't. The universe is very gracious to she who will use her powers for good.

-Two Cakes A Wrapper-
ramen noodles require a microwave you steal twinkies instead, thinking how lil' debbie wants to insinuate that you are a ding dong, a ho ho, or a dark, indigestible square of the Devil your salmon-tinged eyes glance side to side but you somehow miss my new jacket behind you, trying to be equally furtive somehow you figure I'll miss your cocoa-dusted fingers pushing into the cardboard while I fill a non-biodegradable bag with gummy worms you think that is what will play pinochle in your sweetly crusted snout: gummy worms and gelatine beetles you fill your corduroy vest with Nutty Bars and find the metaphor a source of amusement a chance to show your candy corn teeth to the aisle you behave as if is empty now too implicit, I freeze when you wince at a paper cut, slit into your hand on a pack of frosted Zingers while you think of the ironies even more implicit than myself in painfully seeking pleasure, in being punished for the cheapest, dumbest rush, I wonder if your blood tastes something of cherry cordial