One Hundred and Forty-one Post-its1—53

OUTSKIRTS

They lived off the reservation on Resurrection Road at the Last Resort. He smelled things burning, she was architecturally-challenged.

On the third hair day, she wrote him a letter:

"You didn't get together with me because I could fucking make fudge!"

He used sample cologne from magazines to get her attention. She wore mascara to talk on the phone.

"My life would've been very different if I'd've had hair," she said when she called.

"I wish I could see your hair," he said, and she said,

"In the end, everybody looks the same."

She gave away jackets—and once a jellaba—but a girl could only do so much. Twice she was almost killed, maybe three times. She voted with her vagina and wore France pants and liked to fuck with her earrings on. If her name had been Lois, somebody would've bought her a drink.

She believed everyone should, at least once, have a gay affair and take acid. Not necessarily simultaneously. A late bloomer, she took acid for the first time when she was thirty. Yet she was rarely, and only for brief periods, able to live as that girl.

"I'm not an asshole," she told him, trying to go cold turkey on Free Cell, "I'm a drunkard."

"I wish I could see your hair," he told her again.

Meanwhile, with help from a west wind, her alter ego published a novel, although it was ghost-written. He called her Mothwoman, she called him over. She had no idea what she looked like and was rarely, and only for brief periods, a slut.

Other than that, she enjoyed the play.

A LIFE IN D MINOR

It was Dia de los Muertos and she was harmonizing with a jackhammer. Earlier that same day she'd injured herself playing Free Cell.

"What train am I on?" she asked the conductor, and he said,

"This song is called 'Dawn of the Gods,' hon."

Given half a chance, she'd take it. Her idea of the American Dream was to own a pot kiosk in southern California. She changed linen on a crisis basis, it brought out her inner Edie Beale.

But she was losing her train of thought. Her plan was to drop back nine yards and punt.

Which rhymes with cunt, which she wasn't. She was, however, a Yellow Dog Bitch, somebody had to be. You might think you are, but you're not. They're few and far.

"A funny thing happened on the way to therapy," she said to the mummy in the passenger seat, but the mummy was too wrapped up in herself to respond.

When she came out of her stupor, or maybe it was torpor, he was waiting. She wasn't one of the driven ones, but she liked to drive.

"Last night," she said, checking her watch, "this would've been early."

"Well, she's at it again," he said to himself, and ditched his National Geographic.

She drove. After awhile she said,

"Is it just me, or are sneezes actually tiny orgasms?" and he said,

"In the end, everybody wants to go home."