The End

Oil smeared mascara. Greasy, unintentional curls. Skunk ‘pits. Cruisin’ around the building in an unwashed blue dress. Banshee.

“It’s eleven on a Wednesday morning. What are you doing with that box?”
“Time doesn’t matter. Don’t you know that nothing fucking matters?”



“Slap me,” she says. I do.
“Sorry. That was such a pussy bitch slap,” I apologize and slap her again.
“What was that?” She's disappointed.
“Christ. Hold on. Sorry, I’m in a weird position. I don’t have enough leverage.” I reposition my body and slap a red mark onto her cheek. Her eyes are vibrant as she rubs the red mark affectionately. “My turn!” I insist, offering her the side of my face.



Fourteen hundred miles away, a boy sips Wild Turkey, types to me about how he has been punched again.

2:02 am Oh, Love. What did you do to deserve it this time? I will be your PR woman, I promise.
2:03 am Shh, shh, my dear Pile of Trash, in a few months, we’ll be together again. My filthy Anais, my dream, my soulmate.
2:03 am I can’t wait that long, Henry. My anus is bleeding out Mormon rape erotica. We’re creating self-portraits with Elmer’s glue and pubic hair.
2:06 am Darling, I love you.
2:07 am I love you too. I can’t wait for you to push me down flights and flights of stairs.



2404. Here we are in our matching Kellogg’s thermals. Here we are! Hello! Not to worry, she has patched the hole in the crotch of her pants with a decorative leaf. Get off your seats, everyone. Here we are! Dance!

“What’s that on your shoulders? What happened? Are you okay?”
“Absolutely nothing. I am fabulous. Spare me some vodka.”

Whirl back to her. Straddle her.
SLAP.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH.”
SLAP.
Cut the party drone. We are creating a legend here. Shh.
“YOU’RE THE BITCH.”
SLAP.

Rihanna glamour. We want it. We need it.



Palming myself to the thought of sobbing in the corner of his apartment. Dingy floral dress juxtaposed to empty liquor bottles. My soulmate, my soulmate! Four walls and adobe slabs.

Daddy, I drank away your 30,000 dollars. Throw me 300 more for a one way ticket, and I’ll never talk to you again. These burgundy perforations, my expiration date. I JUST WANT TO WASH SOME FUCKING DISHES.