The older I become, the less I care
what people think of me, or if they do,
about my clothes or face or ass or hair,
or whether I will find someone to screw.
The holidays are coming; let me die.
They're hawking Santa now on Halloween.
I'll gobble ice cream, shovel pumpkin pie,
and grow into some double plus-size jeans.
With each new pound a girlish hope expires.
I'm glad to see hope go; it gave me gas.
Now to complete despair my soul aspires,
each day a triumph in my looking glass.
Messiah, born, dead, risen, come again!
I'm reading on my sofa until then.
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