Rosie Today

Sometimes I feel like Ruthie, a geriatric French bulldog taking gulps of pristine, filtered air. Choppy, deep breaths, but it never feels like enough.

But that’s okay; life is just a metaphor. Free will is like a myth.

The center of it all is despair. That’s where the fun begins! Pure filtered air. Distilled water in my system! My life is like a Jhené Aiko rhythm; my ex ruined it, left behind destruction. Rude, antsy anticipation, reckless, fertile, sexless. dont text ur exes.

The girl’s pale skin glistens under the full moonlight, neatly reflecting the sultry blue of her crystal clear saltwater pool. She looks chic as ever, with a warm glow illuminating her silky skin and a black latex garment hugging her bottom. Fatty pink nipples poke out through the surface.

Over the fence, through the trees, the neighboring home is like a tower from a Santorini escape, with white stone, blue trim, and tile detailing at the windowsill and balcony.

“I think that’s my neighbor!” says my sister, lifting onto her tiptoes for a better look. As she does, she covers her chest by folding her arms, still attempting to grow taller in order to exchange a greeting with the woman next door.

“Oh my gosh!” sissy hollars, still covering her breasts, eager and embarrassed at the thought of the lady seeing her bare-chested in the pool.

We hear the loud slam of the balcony door; the woman next door disappears indoors, seemingly unaware that the woman in the pool is splashing and waving to catch her attention.

Suddenly, a bat barrels towards Sissy and me. Ruthie remains totally unfazed and unamazed.

We shriek.

Again, the bat hurdles its sharp cupped wings, beelining toward Sissy’s head.

Two times attacked in our woodland nest.

Sissy shrieks again. Up I go, now swim-lunging up three stairs in one skip, suddenly bolting my body through the door, inside to safety!

Disappearing somewhere deep into the tropics, I am dismayed by the earth as it currently stands, amused by the all-knowing woman, though disappointed in the foolish femme fatale, not to mention disillusioned by the malicious, meticulously cold, cunning, and calculated sigma male.

Slow rhythm, distilled prison.

Last night, I got my body through the large wooden gate and jogged down the slope of our driveway into the basement. The sound of drums banging keeps my body moving; my legs carry me down farther into the far end of the backyard.

I press my hands against the wooden fence and smell fire burning. The sound of drums crescendos, and now that I am closer to the source, the other instruments are detectable: the strum of a bass guitar, a softer lull of the acoustic. I fasten a blue iris through the crevice between wooden posts and linger at the smell of the burning fire. Suddenly, a wave a fomo passes over. Before I know it, my feet are passing me through the yard, up the driveway, around the corner. I find myself in front of the house next door where the bonfire is raging.