The Pretense of a Slattern

I stole a pistachio once when I was seven years old.
Three months later, the summer of 1995 boiled over 600 people alive. I blamed it on myself.
Nana always said I aged quick, like whiskey.
Every night I would pray that my house wouldn't burn down. My routine was flawless.
I never look both ways, a habit of all these one way streets.
Listen, I come off as abrasive. I grew up admiring the Daleys.
You really should floss more. It feels great to look down and see whats left at the end of the day.
If I could afford it, I'd kill the days by baking.
Missouri never took to me but I still remember the sky after getting lost in a state park. I could finally understand the appeal of nowhere.
I don't understand aisles, why do we have to be so compact in life?
Kissing takes more effort than sex, all those chemicals get me all turned around - how can I be expected to kiss correctly.
Popular was never a word related to me.
I wish that everything I say could be recorded, available for playback whenever I needed. I forget too many birthdays.
I wish I could remember the way he said my name the first time we met.
I was the best narrator in the entire sixth grade.
Life has never made sense to me.