Here’s mud in your eye and salt in your glass Here’s to a six-foot-tall Tinkerbell with a halo of fire, a spoiled brat who pushed between me and the pinball machine and would not take “no” for an answer Here’s to nervous dogs with tails curled under and skinny cats hiding in cupboards Here’s to your music I’ll never listen to that vile stuff again Here’s to whatever you were writing all the way to the margins Here’s to bowling in a miniskirt; if I have ever been in love, it was then Here’s to pictures
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We’re all damaged here. This room collects stories like a city park collects dirty needles, like a hoarder keeps old sandwich wrappers in paleolithic heaps.