Travail

I'm comfortable in the guise of a woman at home I'm sixteen the age the child died. My new job has turned me into a misogynist. I don't have time to react intelligently. The day time soap opera is so
eighties the reality perception is flawed. Race gender sexuality for fucks sake religion still religion here's to tomboys both men and women long to suckle from. Male hairdressers projectionists and television magicians all redundant. Death slips silently with me in a mist harbinger of change I stay inside mostly dishing guilt served with a sprig of mint. Seeing every one depletes me. I know it is what I get paid for.