|December 1998 / Volume One / Issue Three|
I want to be one of those sultry girls.
You know, the ones that wear hip-huggers and wire rimmed glasses.
The ones who dance as if the music
was their own secret language
that only they could understand.
One of those trendy girls that knows just how to hold a cigarette
and wiggle her ass at the same time
so that all the men will respectfully lust after her,
buy her foreign beer and ask her what her dreams are.
I want to be able to say that I too
would like to see the world,
write poetry in the beds of strange lovers
and know where all the good sushi restaurants are.
But I can't quote dead philosophers
and I don't even like cooked fish.
Still I want to be one of those assertive chicks
who can say charge it and mean it.
You know, the kind who have the right shoes
for every outfit and a black book
the size of the New York Yellow Pages.
The ones who always have the perfect date
for art exhibitions and symphonies,
who receive anonymous bouquets of roses during lunch hour
and come home to apartments with wooden floors and impressionist art.
I want to be able to make good stir fry
sip wine when I take a bubble bath
like those beautiful girls who can wear a robe
like a slinky black cocktail dress and suck a dick like a parched beggar.
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