This temporary tattoo that I call life is starting to rub off in little colored balls that fall onto the carpet and get gobbled up by beatles and turtles and other classic rock bands that bring attention to the fact that the records playing the soundtrack to my existence are all scratched so I feel a little lost and find myself stumbling into furniture and sitcoms that I don’t have the scripts for. The name written on my underwear doesn’t match my driver’s license. I keep getting mistaken for celebrities. I just want to eat my dinner in silence. The doorbell gives me flashbacks. I’m one big panic attack punctuated by coughing fits. Someone make me a sandwich.
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