She’s getting off the bus at my stop, expensive fake glitter nails, under-age, for sale. What is there to do? Her laughter is harsh, a grinding thing, bright, painful. She walks to the corner, turns left to the stroll, knock off prada, juicy couture velour, industrial back alley bitchiness, swinging her availability like a weapon, something sharp with which to stop cars. Already she’s taken drugs, eyes blank, pupils huge. My walk is to the right, towards the apartment. I look up at the rain as I wait for the stop-light, the wet drops smearing my vision as it spatters on my glasses. I am invisible to her. I worry for her heart.
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McSweeney’s: Barbie Is A Product Of her Environment.
n: vb: the spice of imagination