This is now. That was then.
This is then. That was now.
Rocks smash against hope. I finish my sixteenth Sunny D of the day and hope I’ll make it until sunrise. Stop blushing at the marigold gloves, you fool.
I stand and look about me. I don’t recognise a single thing. Not even the diamond encrusted cheese grater left to me by Orson Welles. Hmph. It’s time to make a move.
Am I a man? Am I a woman? I can’t see my genitals, so it’s a bit like Schrödinger’s cat. I’m both. Don’t peek or you’ll make the decision for me.
Joan. Oh, Joan. Why did you choose to go back to the fifties? The modern world was made as your oyster. I am your pearl.
Let me make you a necklace.
Forever.
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Oh joan. You break all the men folks hearts. You must be one sexy tractor.
She breaks their hearts. Their achy, breaky hearts. She’s like a younger, female Billy Ray Cyrus.
P.s.
Joan is not Miley Cyrus.