Once in its life the yucca moth alights
None of this would have happened, none of this mess with the phone calls and the bad boy and the sandwich and the cow, if I'd been able to find a time that would have me. For a brief period, I seriously considered the nineteen eighties. It's my luck in life to have big hair naturally, and I've always felt jaunty wearing those floppy boots that turned into socks at the top. But I decided only rocker chicks with ratted hair and white bustiers yellowed by cigarette smoke were fully able to pull that off, and I was too uptight for that look. Then, for a while, I believed by time to be the 1902s. I wore sleeveless shifts and adorable shoes and made an effort to express myself spontaneously through flowing movements, like Isadora Duncan. A shitload of gin and one whole day spent spontaneously vomiting into the commode suggested that the twenties were not going to embrace me either.