Madison

... and then there was stuff.

stuff and things.

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Still Real
Madison
rmsugarcandy
Making friends is hard
when you're not seven anymore.

Grown-ups always said,
"Don't talk to strangers."
And now we're all nervous,
self-conscious grown-ups,
unsure of ourselves,
trying to figure out how to effectively talk to strangers.
Hiding behind lists of 25 things only introverts will understand.

In the future, people who don't have debilitating social anxiety
are going to have to start volunteering for research studies,
which will be conducted via subdural microchip.

It's just so easy to dismiss
and to be dismissed
at the click of a button these days.
Scared to say the wrong thing, and
unable to confront ourselves, much less other people.
We know way too much about each other
without ever really getting to know anyone.

Our plumage has begun to atrophy and molt as we
scroll directly to the "favorite movies and music" section.

How are we to demonstrate prowess in a world
where cars are beginning to parallel park themselves?

And how many birthdays do you know by heart?

Do you remember the specific pattern of varied tones
your best friend's phone number used to make?

The problem is, girls don't trade disembodied Barbie heads
for flavored lip gloss
anymore.

But I've got a bottle of fireball whiskey,
and you've got a pretty face.
So let's stay awake forever.
Maybe we could read a map
and wait for a surprise change in the weather.

Let's go on a date to 1997.
Turn our amps and hearts up to eleven.

I wanna tie a flannel around my waist and dig through your CD collection
while music videos play on TV.
They say that's what killed the radio star, you know...
And then we killed the video star,
and I guess we are all made of stars...
But the ones in our eyes have gone dim,
blinded by bad science and too many flashing lights.

I don't want a life of paint by numbers;
I want rain and I want thunder.
I want to remember what it's like to wait...

to observe...

and the rewards that come from it.

So I'm gonna give you the key to my diary,
pull my dress up over my belly button
so we can compare appendectomy scars.

and make sure we're still real.
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