i wonder if people like carly rae jepsen ever think about the money?
i mean, long distance rates are pretty wild these days.
maybe she just has a good plan
or maybe, she just genuinely believes in old cliches like
“money can’t buy love.”
cleaving chlorinated lagoons
scouring for enough
patinated copper pearls
to fill porcine bellies
to the point of fissuring
only surfacing long
enough to avoid
falafel meteorites drowning in lakes
of poppa’s famous garlic sauce
squeezing one last extra
pickle between pillowy pita folds
not patient enough to wait
slashing cooked blacktop lane
dropping sticky layups around
floating teardrops over
burying treys in transition
off of rocky road crossovers
when i was in the sixth grade, my neighbour would stick her head out the window while my friends and i waited for the bus. she would scream about how dangerous microwaves were for society. covered in a thick, pasty-white cream, which i can only assume was SPF 50 or higher sunscreen. her most famous line was: “i know i’m gonna go out, but it’s not gonna be skin cancer.” then she’d spend the rest of the afternoon in her rocking chair slurring insults at panasonic, general electric, and maytag in between swigs of watermelon-lemon soda water.
momma used to say that if it weren’t for all of the cussin’, her rants would almost be poetic. heck, if fruity loops had been around back then, she’d probably have become a somewhat successful myspace rapper. that’s the thing about poor mental health: it’s cute when you can wrap up someone’s eccentricities up with a nice commodifiable bow.
I haven’t done a lot of German philosophy.
I feel like all it is
is one ongoing
argument in the vein of asking your
mother if your best friend can sleep over