Sometimes, we look at ourselves in the mirror and we think ‘what happened to that beautiful little girl?’ I’ll tell you what happened, A) she’s a man, B) she’s old and not little, and C) she’s turned her beautiful years into lock boxes of drug and sex abuse leaving a dried out piece of fruit person that stares in the mirror and wonders further ‘will Botox bring my little girl back, will hyaluronic acid injections do it, the laser, the peels, the knife, how, how do I bring her back?!’ She is no longer. She is of memory. She is of other. ‘Who are you dried fruit face person and what have we become?’ we ask our dried fruit face.
We open our mouth to answer and say, “I’m still me, I’m still that sunny little girl I am.”
But the noise that comes out of our mouth sounds like: a hurt cat, a dying frog, a drowning bag of puppies, a deranged goat, and another goat but much more deranged than the first. We close our mouth. We remain tight lipped. It’s probably not a good time to speak... It’s now time to look down at our body, oh wait, bad idea, look back up, wait, that’s the mirror, please look away, okay, that’s better. Clothes, we’ll cover ourselves with clothes and then look again. Black slimming clothes. Play some music. This song reminds us of when we could really move. Try it, do that move where you spring forward onto your hands and then back again, and… oh fuck, you’re on the ground now. You look back at the mirror and see a collapsed pile of sad person and think ‘did I hear something snap?’ it may have been your mind. A sudden and apparent spiral into complete and utter insanity or a broken wrist, both may be true.