ABSTRACT
If the fever does not go away, fasten your seat belts, girlfriends, and wait for St. Jude to cross your legs. If he takes too long, sweep your thoughts together and call the Hotline. No charge, girlfriends, and the voices you hear are real. Tell ’em about the chills, night sweats, and runs you’ve been having. Open your palms and read to ’em the expeditions you took, how many, and where. Don’t worry, girlfriends, we’ve all been there before, and it’s all in the name of confidentiality. Don’t forget to mention any shipwrecks, perished pilots, and moss growing on your skin. When those closet doors swung open and spit froze in our eyes, did we whimper and make a U-turn? No, girlfriends, we flexed our muscles and painted our nails suck-me violet. Then we took a blowtorch and burnt the damn closet to thy kingdom come. Not my kingdom, but theirs, girlfriends, the ones over there with the jasmine crucifix and fornicating beards who pounded the carpenter’s table when we laughed at the flames. The first few nights are always the hardest. The spiking fever, delirious lips, and skin so dry you could peel it off and make sandwich bags. But, like catechism and singles bars, you’ll get used to it and begin to take it as it is without asking why no one comes up to you anymore and hands over a calling card with a name written in magic markers. You 11 even learn how to float without tire tubes or air mats. So hang in there, girlfriends, and the vines will surely get to you. Grow your hair a few inches longer and you’ll feel like Rapunzel, abandoned, but still waiting pretty. Remember: Think straight and the voices you hear are real. Don’t wait too long for Jude because he might be on vacation and won’t be able to find your lungs by the time he asks you to breathe deep and hold.
