Sell the House, Sell the Car, Sell the Kids
From Spike Magazine, Issue 72, Art & Crime, Summer 2022
During the first week of spring, following a long gruelling winter of deprivation, routine, work and domestic overfamiliarity, it hits hard, standing in line at Trader Joe’s.
Beneath thin grey sweatpants, the dick of an athletic twenty-something is clearly outlined, a weapon, a tool; a mountable mystery of promising puncture, attached to God knows what else; emotional maturity, confidence, no whining. Similarly there she stands, shifting her weight from foot to foot, looking good in spring clothes because she wears so few, glazed in sweat, lip gloss and ‘up for whatever’ her friends like to say, and you’re not too clingy for her, and she doesn’t have a problem with your parents, or your hair. Them or others, any shape or size, gender or no gender. You get lost in fantasy and that’s normal, a relief from thinking of what’s real; the cashews you forgot, the complaint you’ll hear on returning home, and the kids toys, and he’s drunk again, and she’s high again, and they forgot their password and do you remember it, and you wash the dishes even though it’s their turn.
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