SIR

PRACTICE NO 9

I was in the bathtub, feeling for the vibrations from your band practice in the basement. I got the idea while walking up the stairs to a hotel I hadn't yet paid for. I layed in the rented tub and watched while the suds cusp hummed over my breast. I begged you to come up, and there I would be, naked in the water, feeling you strumb. I had graffitied the request on the floor tile in hairspray and lit it on fire but I'm not certain you ever saw it coming through the ceiling plus my tom toms in the distance seem to have been drowned out by somebody's rusty mood change in the air. I send this puff of smoke to you now, look up. I left the water momentarily for lunch and came back with Miss Maryland's scarf. She had left it on a bench while I was reading the new news on the shrimp/treadmill incident. It's red, I'm staring at it now and wondering how the hell I'm ever going to pull this off.

I was a tour guide through this staple gunned hell hole you called puberty. The cabinets shuddered with discontent for what you were going to do to the cabbages. I waited upstairs, whispering into the phone to him, You cannot really be fucking her. The royal it's exciting answered. I have been to crazy town, its still there, I answered, lately I just wave at the gate. I led the tour into the kitchen while you slammed the knives into the garbage disposal and smirked because he liked you better, the red head. My group agrees to abide and be personally responsible for all damages, I said to the crowd, opening the back door to let him into my skirt. You tossed the cat off the washer. Your boyfriend came home for your hideous, mundane, cross stitched poison friday nights while we all sat on our fingers in the couch and I got fired from my post via carrier pigeon. It read, we do not tolerate this sort of do-gooding.