(excerpt from Antidote)

(His scarf, skinny junky arms, clammy hands, and leather jacket.)

- I remember guys like you. The metal kind, you prefer blondes and breasty beasts while I'm thin and titless, (and they are beginning to ban the physique of women like me in some countries). I'm the English major, you're the rock star and I'm a f*&king clown. Sexy doesn't come easy to girls like me, strutting nipples of a 12 year old boy....

...Like I said, you're a rock star and I'm a f*&king clown…

You'll find me in the back of the bus, off to the side at art shows, on the front row at concerts, in the dark alleys, roaming Wal-Marts at 2 am. People like me don't even go to clubs because we aren't sexy enough. We mar ourselves, maim and war with our minds. (F you rock star.)

It's a junky Christmas; I should have done a background check on this one, the I-pad card swipe in the club - name, social security, and license – hold on a moment. Silent but deadly. My own prefab delusions withstand hurricanes from the Gulf, tornadoes in the Midwest, the wet insulation of the roof causing the ceiling to droop, to crash in suddenly as if a surprise. The shingle needed to be replaced. Programs of the world are designed for lowering expectations. They begin in our youth, in poverty, in 9 to 5 routines of socially constructed slavery, in ads promoting the miraculous drug of consumerism. You too can be happy if you have the finest clothes, the latest technological advancements, the boob jobs, face puffs, lip injections, tummy tucks, butt tucks, alcohol, cigarettes, fastest car, largest home; watch how the masses crumble with anticipation, scrabble with attainment, push and shove for just one more hit of the goods. Then come the guns, the thievery, the medication and the nightmare pill.

We pack up and drive, drive as far away as we can from the negative madness that is Houston. Fuzzy blankets, pillows, coffee, and whatever we can cram in a bag. The house will smell like shit when we return - four cats battling for domination, for control over the litter box, and pooping on floors.

Kira mumbles 'Iron Man'. I'm thrown back to high school, mid 80's, the weekend with the church, the gym, and racquetball. They left a handful of preteens alone in a gym. We snuck off to the racquetball rooms. Yes, I kissed him, my first kiss, it sucked he had nasty breath and chaffed lips, I did it again wondering why television made such a fuss over two people pressing faces; halitosis and slobber. I told him to swallow, chew gum, and maybe we'd just hold hands. We spent weeks on the phone, late night conversations with me doing all the talking. Silence. He'd say, listen to this, play Iron Man. Duh duh duh duh duh... 'I…am…iron man'...the words drag and linger. He always ran out of things to say and Black Sabbath filled the void.

Richee; it’s like high school with a 40-year-old incompetent junkie. He brings 45's of hair bands; those metal 80's of bleach blonde. I'm like a tit-less clown again; guys notice me when I make a scene, scream at someone, get kicked out of the bar. I play tomboy on the yellow bus at camp, smoke cigarettes and try to act 'cool'. Zip the hood up higher and think maybe they'll appreciate me for my voice, my song or my literacy. My freak show is like GaGa without the cute. The prepubescent possibilities wear off after the aging, the wrinkles and cavities – not marketable by Hollywood standards. 

He plays the 45's on my record player, his clammy hands and metal head scarves, his highs. He watches Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, too arrogant for small towns, too deceptive for trust. He doesn't talk, doesn't answer questions asked, doesn't care to lie next to me. Days later, after my constant attempts to text him and connect with him, he says, "You don't know me." 

"No shit, well it helps if you talk."

(R.I.P. Richee - sorry man)