I’m at home, sitting on the couch. The rumba keeps bumping into my dog. I smell like an old man according to my wife. Books and farts, she says, wishing that I didn’t smell so much like that. I take a shower, trying to smell like the baby that she’s looking for. She joins me, and she starts singing: This is a story from a to z about my family history. I come from a place called West Jordan, and my babe’s from South Jordan. We met at school; just kidding, we met at a coffee shop; just kidding, we met at school in an elevator. We recreated “that” video. Ha ha. It’s all about love and sex, and love and sex, because my babe is my sugar baby, he’s super sexy, he doesn’t smell like farts and books! He’s super sexy, even though he smells like farts and books, because he eats books.

boom boom boom. I’ve got my own personal transcriber, she says, looking down at me who is catching her words in the corner on my computer. I can pretty much say whatever I want, and it gets recorded! Pretty cool! I like that! I bet Jay z has the same thing. Someone follows him around. It’s what I need though. It’s what an artist needs.

Posted in Lit

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