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I look good in green, but I don’t want to kill anyone. Or get up early.
“You, Greta, live your life hoping something exciting will happen every day. You could have asked her what was going on; you’re a good communicator. But you didn’t, because you didn’t want to be told it was nothing, for the mystery to be over.”
They put that woman in the ground, had some tiny sandwiches, and went home.
People have gates with keypads to protect themselves from each other.
What is it like to have freckles, to live your life with a constellation across your nose every day?
“Mother? Why are you calling me Mother, you’re making me feel like I’m an old drag queen in a silver bodysuit, maybe smoking a cigarette in a club in New York City.”
“I don’t really feel like anything these days, just a beautiful husk filled with opinions about globalism and a strong desire to go out for dinner.”
I thought teens were all chill and pansexual these days and only old millennials like Ell freak out and cut all their hair off the first time they touch a boob, age twenty-six.”
No matter what happens, I think it’s important that you felt like you could love someone like that. It’s special, to be able to love.”
It’s strange for me to think that people can know about me without me having met them, to remember me when I’m not there, to know I exist when I’m not standing in front of them. It seems even more strange for someone to want me to be with them when I’m not, and the most strange for someone to need me, to depend on me, to love me. But I suppose this is what is happening.
“I’m not a human jukebox,” I say, even though I am.
