Sorry, baby, but today was the day. I even removed your bookmark from my browser. I pulled it out like a ragged splinter. Sure, that fucker hurt, but it’s supposed to sting on its way out, ain’t it? That’s to remind a soul of all that healing it must do. And that’s the kind of hurt I needs.
Baby, that ain’t all. That macaroni collage I was making of your naked form, the one I cobbled together from all them photographs and my dank memories? Well, I abandoned that. And not like the way I abandoned my other paintings, or my career as a professional chef or art dealer, or that idea I had to make wigs for babies. This was personal, baby. I didn’t want that macaroni staring back at me all day, accusing me. So I ate it. Yeah, hon, I ate my art. And as soon as I move my bowels, you’re outta here. Part and parcel, baby. Know what I mean? Cause I’m working on symbolic levels, now. Shit you can’t even wrap your beautiful head (oh my god i wish i could smell your hair oh why oh why oh shit just one more time i’ll be good) around.
That’s right. I’m clean, baby. Cleaned out of you. I’m calling the print shop right now and having that order canceled. The duvet cover silkscreened with your full-length sleeping form on it. Yeah, fuck that. I don’t need it because I cleaned out my bookmarks today and I’m cleaning out my colon later today and after that I’ll be new, changed. Not like that time I went to London for three weeks and came back telling everyone how different I was and insisted on calling the elevator in your building a lift for a few weeks until I totally forgot to. No, this is different. Watch me. Baby, I’m over you. And I’ll tell every woman I date from tomorrow forward that very same thing, over and over again.
