Well, Shit.

I bet you went to summer music festivals.

Wearing ironic tshirts

And handmade necklaces like neon pink and green

Freckles.

On freeways in New Jersey

Smoking camel crushes and wearing bandanas

Like ten pound headdresses.

You might have been stoned

Or just terrified

Watching your boyfriend

His veins full of some kind of heaven

Do 85 all the way to the show

(you sat shotgun,

shotgunning three hours of startling

chaos, so bright

you saw a neon orange haze of

shit

flying past you.

You wanted to hurl.)

And I bet your hair isn’t really red

I bet it’s dyed red

But a brilliant red

Only achieved by blondes.

And I bet you were a little bit chubby

When you were in the second grade.

And it is my own suspicion

That you

Hung out in malls,

Eating ice cream with plastic spoons,

And buying ironic cartoon tshirts

(words didn’t show up til

two-thousand-and-two)

And had a lot of sleepovers

Where you might have kissed a

Girlfriend

But you can’t remember because of the hard lemonade.

(Now, Smirnoff ice).

You wanted a little danger in your life

So you gave out blowjobs in bathrooms

To your schoolboy companions,

And

Now

You’re all sultry smiles

And stoned giggles,

And Smirnoff ice

And soft girl-kisses like marascino cherries.

And I’m sure you’re occasionally to be seen in ironic t-shirts

Though much more often you’re to be seen in four inch heels

And sundresses.

And when you undress, the peachfuzz sheen comes off your body

Like the rays of some teenaged sun,

The curve of your lip like the

Warmth of your little cupcake breasts.

What a waste , I think, that I’m not in the mood.