Horoscopes
One morning she awoke with little faith left in the weatherman as she crept, naked feet on cold linoleum down to the door… on the other side it rained mercilessly, fuck ten percent chance of precipitation!
She put your toast in and pushed hard on the plastic, trying not to burn it this time… still only in her underwear she sits cross-legged now on the stupid kitchen floor with her coffee resting up against her inner thy, letting the warmth radiate upwards towards the frozen core… defrosting like the meat set out to thaw.
The paper is damp and smells of ink and spring… she unfolds it as precisely as she can muster at this early an hour… fucking newspapers are always impossible to put back together, they never get passed on to the next reader in tact; just look at these ink stained hands, a little bad news always rubs off on me… she thinks sitting cross-legged still on the ugly yellow linoleum of apartment 12B….
Passing the headlines with their pictures of people praying in beautiful black and white lighting, mourning the death of the Pope… she flicks to the horoscopes… mindlessly… it’s all mindless at 5am on a Tuesday... she reads the caption under the little cartoon goat… “More fucking bad news,” she half vocalizes into an empty room as she stands up awkwardly to mind the burnt toast… spilling her coffee as she fumbles upward…
The haze of sleepiness finally burns off and this stupid, lost… scratch that; beautiful girl… scratch that; woman… looks up from the sleepy paper, the burnt toast, the spilled coffee and screams out… not half spoken, nor simply a muffled cry… “fuck it! it’s time we started writing out own horoscopes…. I’m just a fucked up girl who wants happiness, creativity, adventure and love…. And I’m… I’m pretty damn resistant… resilient… yeah that’s me in a nice little blur, a dime size ad in the paper…”