| Dear Mr. Murphy |
| Dear Mr Murphy, I went to the store today. Milk was a dollar. It used to be a quarter and a man would bring it to your house. Why couldn't I be a hippie? Why couldn't I be a feminist? I could burn a bra. While we're at it there are a few books I wouldn't mind burning. Why do I love women who hate me? Why do I leave women that love me? Is it in my genes? All that's in my jeans is a stick of gum and 55 cents. Not enough for milk but enough for a phone call. I would like my dreams to be a figurine I can place on my mantle. I would like my self-worth in small unmarked bills. I am running away. I am tired of this life I don't want to be a website. I want to blame the communists. I want my heros to be alive. I want to have a say. I want to be nostalgic. I want to burn bras, burn books, smoke weed, listen to rock, and buy milk with a quarter. Mr Murphy, everything is goin' wrong. Is this the worst possible moment, or is there more to come? |