3/17/2006
Thank You for Calling Old Age
Thank you for calling. Shoshana does not exist. The phone has turned to gold lame. Please leave your message now.
I try to transcribe my dreams in shallow sleepless pauses between songs. The Cure is playing lullabyes to brittle-boned children. My comforter is stuffed with clouds of dust, it sifts powdery through the duvet, settling uneasily over ratty carpet; when I step too hard it crowds into my lungs.
The cats are fighting again—I can feel a single, sharp horn growing up from the center of my head as they chase each other [sic] through stacks of furniture. My house is a department store for the recently blind, everything has a scent/feel of its own.
I have given up going to salons. I polish every fingernail a different color; that is how I see them, anyway. My weight fluctuates between 98 and 380 pounds, depending on who is standing next to me. I forget to shave my legs, delaying my period for monthes on end; I am hoarding my estrogen for old age. ¶ 5:18 AM
I try to transcribe my dreams in shallow sleepless pauses between songs. The Cure is playing lullabyes to brittle-boned children. My comforter is stuffed with clouds of dust, it sifts powdery through the duvet, settling uneasily over ratty carpet; when I step too hard it crowds into my lungs.
The cats are fighting again—I can feel a single, sharp horn growing up from the center of my head as they chase each other [sic] through stacks of furniture. My house is a department store for the recently blind, everything has a scent/feel of its own.
I have given up going to salons. I polish every fingernail a different color; that is how I see them, anyway. My weight fluctuates between 98 and 380 pounds, depending on who is standing next to me. I forget to shave my legs, delaying my period for monthes on end; I am hoarding my estrogen for old age. ¶ 5:18 AM
