Photo Booth

I took this photo of myself today. In a photo booth downtown in an all-night diner. It cost me ten dollars, an absurd amount. Some woman stole an entire set of my photos. I'm feeling frazzled today. My bra doesn't fit.

My bra doesn't fit.

That lady thief had a baby with her. I couldn't stand the look of them. The baby was unadvanced. It kept chewing on the chairs. After all, I had found a pubic hair in my hummus in this same room, several years before, when I was eating there. I used to smoke then.

I want to give a shout out to that horrible gossip, we'll call him "Jason," whose pubic hair I found in my hummus.

The Cruel Puppet Begins His Childhood

I hardly remembered about my mother or my father, though they let me splash splash terribly in the bathtub. I owed them a remembrance for that at least. My shout out went according to the usual formulas and left me hoarse and hairless. It got me to shouting all of the time. I caught my reflection in a subway window and knew I wouldn't let myself get away with nothing no more. I twisted my features into unflattering poses I saw on my morning commute.

I was cruel, after all.