Gloria got stressed by the blood pints stacked in her broken down cold storage unit
Some of the pints resembled the faces of her old lovers, the way the plastic wrinkled with condensation
The coincidence of insanity can be anywhere…a locked bathroom door…a stolen screenplay…your attempt to slightly change the world with pet lungs
She started painting vaginas to ease the pain of seeing the faces of sex partners on pints of blood
The paintings were derivative, but she didn’t care
Everyone loves a vagina, she’d say
She had a point and soon enough opened a little art gallery
I helped her out for a 10% commission, but nobody was buying
One day I sold four paintings
I told the buyers they were painted in prison when Gloria was serving time for impersonating the daughter of Merrill Streep and running up big hotel bills
When one of the buyers came by the blood bank to ask Gloria about prison, she fired me, but also gave me two pints of blood on my way out the door
Here, these are for old time’s sake, sell them to the new hospital, but don’t tell them they look like the father and son I screwed back in New York City
Gloria thought her guilt was like a newspaper that everyone could read
A moribund meeting of life (vaginas) and immortality (blood) and of course, faces like shriveled penises – couldn’t help but flash a twisted smile at the screen reflecting my face back at me. Clever! But shouldn’t Gloria’s name be Georgia?
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I see you reciting this while gathering cigarette butts in an underground parking garage.
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Can always rely upon you to provide a bizarre jolt in the middle of my day.
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