Ms. Chicaaaaaaaawwwgo
I knew her since middle school. Like a disease. She was that pizza that burned the roof of your mouth, that bit of popcorn lodged between your teeth. Fingers of needles, teeth of pills and a smile that lead you to believe the best: that she was clean, that she was of something to invest trust, but she'd always prove you wrong. I saw her a couple of days ago, whispering in her new fling's ear, persuading with a smile for more free-giving. Sorry sucker. She looked over at me now and again. I sat and read the paper. I heard she was a stripper after graduation. I don't hear rumors. I don't follow rumors. What I can tell you is she died like a Spencer's novelty fad along with the Mad Hatter, mushrooms, raves, 69 and the like.