dear sunny,

look at you, sitting there being good. after two years you're still dying for a cigarette. and not drinking on weekdays, who thought that one up? don't you wanna run to the corner right now for a fifith of vodka and have it with cranberry juice and a nice lemon slice? wouldn't the balcony that you're sick of staring out into look better then - the fence with its fresh coat of paint, the ash free barbeque. you ought to drive your snout into the coffee grounds. ah, coffee! why not gulp some down with four cigarettes and then blast naked into streets, and leap on the first beautiful man you find? the words ruin me, haven't they been jailed in your throat for two years, isn't it time you set them loose in slutty dresses to totter around in five-inch heels and slutty mascara?

***

yeah. i miss sitting in a jazz bar all dizzy and tipsy, all dressed up. watching smoke bounce against the light, lightly tapping my foot on the black ceramic tiles.

xoxo
sunny