Back. Miss me? Of course you did. Then who wouldn’t. Even the billions of people who don’t know me know their lives are empty. That vague nebulous unnameable emptiness of soul. Empty waiting for me to be there. Ti fill it all in. Let me fill your hole. Fleetwood Mac. Oh my god I look like Stevie Nicks. Must be Mary. Isn’t it sad when big boobs are your best recommendation? Peanut butter cookie. I hear it calling my name. Maybe I need to change my medication. Or begin enjoying it more. Start making sense. What state has the most blondes? Bleached or otherwise. Like wow. You still can’t have my Bud Lite. Here’s a thought. There it goes. Wave bye bye. Maybe bowling. Or pool. Surfer hunting. Like wow. Mmmmm food. Time to eat the cookie. Coooookie. Cookie Monster. Barney. Big Bird. Larry. Fife. Barney. Again. You only live twice. But only when a spy loves you. Or was that when you’re a spy in the house of love? Or Love Canal. Sweater girl. Sweaty girl. Not a bad thing. Depending on the situation. Bring me to the map room. Free fall fun. I just don’t understand. Thank god. Years after 1984, and I still don’t have a big brother. Though my little brother is bigger than me. But I’m not sure that’s the point. Your stomach should never stick out further than your boobs when you stand up straight. Pregnancy excepted. A look of fear. Here comes the pick up routine. More painful than gymnastics gone bad. Or synchronized swimming. Please explain to me how that became considered a sport. Olympic no less. Bridge’ll probably be next. Naked chicks. Not a bad thing. Unless it is Ken Sullivan. Ken Sullivan. Both set up, and punch line. What did the Hindu priest say to the hot dog vendor? Would you put that up my ass please? Or maybe that was the Catholic priest. I can never remember. Drugs you know. And would you introduce me? Giggles are humor hiccups. Sorry. Women shouting my name. Normally not a bad thing. Except they’re carrying pitch forks and torches. Bang on the castle door. What exactly is a crumpet? Not fade away. Buddy Holly. Not a very good waiter. That’s what happens after you plummet to your death with someone named the big bopper. Kill the marines. Or at least give them personality transplant. Ego reductions. Or penis enlargements. Mental capacity additions. London is not a country. The caffiend is tearing up my stomach. My empty stomach. Been on the move all day. No time for eats. Too skinny. To vacant. She’s too happy. Must be my cynical Boston nature but euphoria makes me suspicious. And so there it is. What no one knows. The actual name of god. The Word. I think it’s Fred. Think of gods ego if he demands the rituals attributed to him. Brooding guy alert. Pride is a vice, if not a sin. One of the seven Brad Pitt sins. Did you know that he thinks Pittsburgh was named for him. Maybe arm pits. Linda Pitts. Of gigantic tits. The first girl in my grade to have boobs. And they were huge. Needless to say. So I won’t. She was very popular. With the boys anyways. Lesbians everywhere. Ireland. The land of Ire. What exactly does that mean? Nice butt. But crazy redhead.