I did my taxes on April 18th,
without reading much of the fine print. Hopefully I’m successful in cheating the IRS, by not filing as an independent contractor. (Though I ticked a box indicating “single” multiple times,
so technically I am contractually independent.)
I have dreams of my teeth falling out,
it’s the only dream I have, really.
It doesn’t hurt, it’s just impolite —
my molars tumbling like a team of sled dogs,
mushing, mushing, mushing.
My conscience sounds a lot like
a podcast. Not lulling and inquisitive
or reliably factual.
I actually call in quite frequently to complain
about my own vocal fry.
I went on a date last week with someone
who wore dad sweaters post-ironically,
but that’s not why I hated him.
It probably had more to do with the way
he negotiated coming home with me.
“I won’t rape you,” he said.
He works at Thought Catalog though,
so that’s on me.