from shitty slam poem to awkward prose in thirty seconds flat!
so, i tried this as a slam(ish) poem, but judging by audience reaction i should probably shelve it. however, i write so rarely that trashing anything would make me convulse (or at least whimper), so i tried to slightly rework it into very short prose. please let me know if i should try to put it back in poem form, continue trying to make it prose, or pretend it never happened. it's a pretty rough cut right now, i'm just trying to get a feel for how it would do as prose.
christiana gave it two years and i wondered if her source was the same that recommended flaunting 50 year old cleavage and fake nails that could cut steak.
either way, this was my new gospel. like every teenage girl that went lesbian after mischa barton chose chicks over dicks on the o.c., i eagerly followed the guidance of a skinny brunette with fewer IQ points than waistline inches.
twenty four months-- alone. my options were bleak. with negligible knitting skill and distaste for wheel of fortune, i was unprepared to be an old maid at seventeen. years reserved for dances with handsome devils were doomed to real world reruns and waiting with wingmen. the only plausible perk to long-term loneliness would be a pocket protector-worthy GPA.
reluctant to begin my reign as sara the sickening single, i tried to rationalize. maybe i smudged ink on my palm to turn the "future mrs. pitt" line into the "dating leper" line. a little soap, and christiana would advise me to ensure no suitors brawl over my beauty, not to get intimate with a futon and the entire ben and jerry's selection.
i glanced at her palm as she waved me out of her musty domain, looking for the inevitable line that would proclaim she was itching to race home for knife infomercials and phone sex ads only aired after midnight. that inference required no hand, however. perhaps she saw me and thought "loveless loser" like i saw her and thought of late night escapades with cheap cutlery and party lines.
her guess was my challenge. i expected bob barker to come out and tell me that i would get a free toaster and a year's supply of hair wax by playing "prove the psychic a fraud". then again, maybe there was no toaster in my reach. christiana left me 24 months of teetering between balding men and mullet heads, my tragic attempts to prove her wrong.
christiana gave it two years and i wondered if her source was the same that recommended flaunting 50 year old cleavage and fake nails that could cut steak.
either way, this was my new gospel. like every teenage girl that went lesbian after mischa barton chose chicks over dicks on the o.c., i eagerly followed the guidance of a skinny brunette with fewer IQ points than waistline inches.
twenty four months-- alone. my options were bleak. with negligible knitting skill and distaste for wheel of fortune, i was unprepared to be an old maid at seventeen. years reserved for dances with handsome devils were doomed to real world reruns and waiting with wingmen. the only plausible perk to long-term loneliness would be a pocket protector-worthy GPA.
reluctant to begin my reign as sara the sickening single, i tried to rationalize. maybe i smudged ink on my palm to turn the "future mrs. pitt" line into the "dating leper" line. a little soap, and christiana would advise me to ensure no suitors brawl over my beauty, not to get intimate with a futon and the entire ben and jerry's selection.
i glanced at her palm as she waved me out of her musty domain, looking for the inevitable line that would proclaim she was itching to race home for knife infomercials and phone sex ads only aired after midnight. that inference required no hand, however. perhaps she saw me and thought "loveless loser" like i saw her and thought of late night escapades with cheap cutlery and party lines.
her guess was my challenge. i expected bob barker to come out and tell me that i would get a free toaster and a year's supply of hair wax by playing "prove the psychic a fraud". then again, maybe there was no toaster in my reach. christiana left me 24 months of teetering between balding men and mullet heads, my tragic attempts to prove her wrong.