dead girls still have hearts
on the difference between dead girls and ghosts
Daphne Gottlieb
Both dead girls and ghosts already have your number. But a dead girl won't call you. A ghost doesn't have to call.
The ghost is soul lingerie. You can see right through her. She slips through your fingers.
The dead girl is all bawdy. A dead girl is real. Heavy. Sooner or later, no matter how strong you are, your arms will tire, and you will have to let go. And the dead girl will say, I told you so.
You have to try hard, work harder, scrub and pray and do all sorts of things to get rid of a ghost (depending on, of course, who she is and why she's there).
Dead girls leave you. They've already left. Dead girls are past tense. You had good times. You made time. The time of your life. Once upon a time.
Ghosts are timeless. A ghost can be right here right now. But with dead girls, the biological clock is always ticking.
Science may try and assert that there's no such thing as ghosts. That may be true. However, sooner or later, half of the global population will be dead girls. Or already is.
The most important difference between dead girls and ghosts -- perhaps the only one you need to know -- is this: The dead girl still has a heart.
The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed With
by Maggie Estep
The stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
stands so close to me
I can feel his breath
on my neck
and smell
the way he would smell
if we slept together
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and that is his primary function in life
to be a stupid jerk I can obsess over
and to talk to that dingy bimbette blonde
as if he really wanted to hear about her
manicures and
pedicures and
New Age ritualistic enema cures and
truth be known, he probably does wanna hear about it
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's obsessed with doing anything he can
to lend fuel to my fire
he makes a point of standing
looking over my shoulder
when I'm talking to the guy who adores me
and would bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
if I asked him to bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
but I can't ask him to bark like a dog
or impersonate any kind of animal at all
cause I'm too busy
looking at the way the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
has pants on that perfectly define his well-shaped ass
to the point where I'm thoroughly frantic
I'm just gonna go home
and stick my head in the oven
overdose on nutmeg and aspirin
and sit in the bathtub reading The Executioner's Song
and being completely confounded by the fact
that I can see
the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with's face
defining itself in the peeling plaster of the wall
grinning and winking
and I start to yell,
Get the hell out of there
You're just a figment of my imagination
Just get a life and get out of my plaster
and pass me the next painful situation please
but he just keeps on
grinning and winking
he's the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's mine
in my plaster
And frankly, I couldn't be happier.
Daphne Gottlieb
Both dead girls and ghosts already have your number. But a dead girl won't call you. A ghost doesn't have to call.
The ghost is soul lingerie. You can see right through her. She slips through your fingers.
The dead girl is all bawdy. A dead girl is real. Heavy. Sooner or later, no matter how strong you are, your arms will tire, and you will have to let go. And the dead girl will say, I told you so.
You have to try hard, work harder, scrub and pray and do all sorts of things to get rid of a ghost (depending on, of course, who she is and why she's there).
Dead girls leave you. They've already left. Dead girls are past tense. You had good times. You made time. The time of your life. Once upon a time.
Ghosts are timeless. A ghost can be right here right now. But with dead girls, the biological clock is always ticking.
Science may try and assert that there's no such thing as ghosts. That may be true. However, sooner or later, half of the global population will be dead girls. Or already is.
The most important difference between dead girls and ghosts -- perhaps the only one you need to know -- is this: The dead girl still has a heart.
The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed With
by Maggie Estep
The stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
stands so close to me
I can feel his breath
on my neck
and smell
the way he would smell
if we slept together
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and that is his primary function in life
to be a stupid jerk I can obsess over
and to talk to that dingy bimbette blonde
as if he really wanted to hear about her
manicures and
pedicures and
New Age ritualistic enema cures and
truth be known, he probably does wanna hear about it
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's obsessed with doing anything he can
to lend fuel to my fire
he makes a point of standing
looking over my shoulder
when I'm talking to the guy who adores me
and would bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
if I asked him to bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
but I can't ask him to bark like a dog
or impersonate any kind of animal at all
cause I'm too busy
looking at the way the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
has pants on that perfectly define his well-shaped ass
to the point where I'm thoroughly frantic
I'm just gonna go home
and stick my head in the oven
overdose on nutmeg and aspirin
and sit in the bathtub reading The Executioner's Song
and being completely confounded by the fact
that I can see
the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with's face
defining itself in the peeling plaster of the wall
grinning and winking
and I start to yell,
Get the hell out of there
You're just a figment of my imagination
Just get a life and get out of my plaster
and pass me the next painful situation please
but he just keeps on
grinning and winking
he's the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's mine
in my plaster
And frankly, I couldn't be happier.