Self-pity & the modern housewife

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My punk-rock pilgrimage of a life abandoned me in someone else’s Cape Cod house in a subdivision with a cul-de-sac.  There’s a man here who calls me “the Mrs.” and two cherub-faced children who call me “mommy”.   I drink too much coffee and wash socks that I don’t wear.   The sharks don’t swim like they used to and I keep forgetting to change the month on the calendar. 

My pores are lacking nicotine and I can’t find my dancing shoes.  I’ve moved my party to the page, where the hangovers cause tears but very little vomiting. 

One more tattoo and I’ll be a rock star.  If I can only out-cool myself, I’ll out-cool the world, you see.  It’s a struggle because the American Jesus doesn’t appreciate slackers. 

Happiness is a freshly baked casserole with a side of wine in a 750 ml bottle.  No magnums these days. The liver you save may be your own.

I did it, I grew up.  Now leave me alone.

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