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“Tuesday night at driving school I saw Jason Summers. I hadn’t seen him since grade school. He is so gross! He has bad breath that smells like rotten milk. But I’m just the memory of high school narrative, slipping through the disembodied voice of a ghostly cheerleader minstrel. I am the echo of a loud girl who you didn’t hang out with. There is no sadness or melancholy in my voice.”
“I lit the way to your sun-dried fantasies in college, when you looked back at suburban pink colors in the towns you drove through and felt like a dirty relic of jukebox pizza days. Your glory faded with no particular beauty and left a skidmark of album rock behind – Boston, Nazareth, Kansas and the like. The lonely radio noise of my nasal voice played in your head, and you pictured my Britney butthole pouting and whimpering for your thin college boy-cock.”
“Before I was pornographic, I was Cindy teen-dream, the driving school wet diaper of fractured composite that jumped out at you just yesterday, well into your thirties. Since magazines were frail tiny reminders of acorn shits, my bubbly goodness sprang on you like pharmaceutical lies. But I grew convoluted and fractured into Bianca Jagger degeneracy… I was postcard friendly, but packaged my filthy pubic shame in a Freudian hall of mirrors. My excited ghost mounted you; I was a girl on the gritty needle of subversion, shooting your dirty brown water into my pussy like a strapped-on nursery bitch.”
“The future is so dry for you. My wounded goodbye is a board game in a waiting room, filled with pieces and played-out couplets. Next to the toaster in the house you were born, the idiot senility of an old clock becomes endearing. Kitchen hearth and holiday warmth light the way to your protracted backward glance, and the darkened blood of your animal cousins is just totally freaking me out, like oh my God!”
Date Written: December 12, 2003
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 4.875