new year

funny how things change
but never so much to make you forget the back of your hand.

you the aspiring academic, the self-described writer have become the call girl and aspiring writer, fleeing the halls of young white boys craning to be right.
me the aspiring writer, feverishly scheming to flee that town, have become someone who plans suits for conferences and makes resolutions that involve academic journals.

both still going through boys like popsicles, despite marriages and expectations, thumbs in eyes, thighs taute for the next wave.