Sometimes you’ll be so beautifully opposed: Should I Marry Him? or I Want That Dress. Sometimes your vanity overrides your sense of well-being and now look at yourself: Sequins and spangles and bright pink bows in your matted country hair, and thinking as men in white tuxes tax your costume with wild animal eyes I Should Buy A Mirror. And later, running in three-inch heels, you broke your ankle and fell into the arms of a man: Stout, muscular, with hair that could sail ships. You forgot life was a Restoration Comedy. You forgot all these entrances and exits and doors slamming in rapid succession have been scripted. If you squint your eyes you can see the Prompter, sitting in his box, waiting for you to Fuck Up so his life can have purpose. Who said it wasn’t going to be lonely? Who could predict that Earthquake that destroyed Downtown but only knocked an old bottle off your broken refrigerator? The older you get, the less you believe in tragedy. Things happen: Things happen. Yesterday morning, you stared outside and contemplated how the sky got blue. Your former lover called and asked how the disease was going. Oh Fine, you replied, and sat around until it got dark.