My brain is on wire for an hour afterwards, lying naked under the fan and starting to cool off, realize my nakedness. I have no idea where I am except for this body—Scrooge, why do you doubt your senses? Cause I’m a nomadic tunes-woman, strewn from winnowed tree nutshells, the willow wander, the ebb and holler of the geese in Wakonda. I stop astounded at the softened conscience, tallow found from glass Orwellian make-up shops, and easily avertable pick up lines from wasty-face wiggers outside of Looney’s Pub in the summer and it was all easy; rather, it seems that way now, flexing back on it, hindquarters march this awkward limp down the cherry-wood hall to the powder room.
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