Call me…


WELL … let’s see … what should I say? I fell in like
with a bird named J whose blues eyes shine like light
from God reflected off fun-house mirrors at
small town fairs. You get there by passing little
pink houses and raucous teenagers blasting
John Cougar Mellencamp at max volume. Ugh.
I mean, I like Small Town as much as the next
guy, but if I’m listening to blue collar
rock it’s gotta be the old fart from Jersey.
The Devil. Bruce Springsteen. … Wait, what? What’d he say?
Who’s on first? What is happening? Launch the Jav-
-ier was my chosen name in Spanish class.
I sat near a dude named Matt who sported the
most atrocious high top flip flop you’ve ever
heard about. That’s all right, though. I was a dick.
So? I just pulled out the old yearbook and it
looks like I’m taking a shit on Moon River.
Isn’t that what growing up was all about?
Learning how to crucify people in print
like some kind of modern day Dante or Geoff
Chaucer? Just ask Senora Hardy – she was
a merciless shrew, wasn’t she? Her bony
chicken legs went all the way up to a bad
perm and donde esta el bibliotec-
ahhhh. Hey Susie Q … yes, you … remember when
I used to tap her on the shoulder simply
because I knew she’d overreact? You do?
Cool. Me too. Do you want to be friends again?
I’m just an email or old-fashioned letter
away. Also, if your name happens to be
Taylor, I have but one simple request: Please…


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