Physically uninspiring

Of the various things I could be doing right now, I choose to listen to a bit of sad music, have a Guinness or two, and sit with you.

Is anything sacred?

Here is an image of how we can sit: let me be a child again, a wee thing, a pie-crust promise of sticks and bones, and let me sit in your lap like a boy in an inner tube in a warm, lazy stream. You may very well put your arms around me -- for some reason I am not frightened by the new breasts that press against my back. Though I am not yet old, I know enough that they are something divine: a magic I lack.

But I am not a wee thing. I am "physically uninspiring (short, thin, moderately misshapen, and very blond)." True (true, now false, true, now false).

Is your pain sacred? I cannot relate to an old pain. I cannot quite feel the whole universe in my body. I can feel my own smallness in the universe -- but I'm able to see my own life as a funny little TV show with my own laugh tripled and tripled and tripled as the laugh track. So what I know is that my own pain is a background noise that I spice with sad songs.

More important, perhaps: Last night I rode a tiny motorcycle up and down those hills. The fuse of the little motor was lit by fire (and happily smelled like lavender), so it was best to use the cherry of my cigarette -- in which vice I was only too happy to indulge. At times I found myself in the plush homes of strangers; it was pleasant to inspect their couches and aquariums, but I feared the noise might draw them out of their bedrooms.

Always, always, and always the wet house. At some point everything that works will fall off, and I will be left a blob of flesh and digestion. You may wonder what the point is.

Fuck if I know.

What have I got? Three precious ex-husbands, all of whom can face me when sober and might remarry me when drunk.