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.