December 12, 2005

We should all grow something on our faces — Marxist beards, dozens of pimples, several noses, testicles, tumours, seven furious nipples. Growing a beard hurts in satisfying ways, like making love for the first time. The other options haven’t yet been fully explored.

Laura’s classmates think I’m crazy. “I’ve seen his penis on the Internet before I knew his face,” she told them in the sombre silence of a grad party. “That’s not right,” they said, weary of cocky men. Last time I met them I mumbled random shit and took secretive bites of out their dry biscuits.

My hands are dry and in the distance I can hear trains passing. I’m caught between two lives, two dreams, each one wrapped in tears. Violets are like violence, a symbol of our weakness.