For class tomorrow, we had to write in the style of someone unlike ourselves. I didn’t use anyone specific, just sort of an anti-Jana persona. I kind of can’t stand it. Here it is:
It’s a jungle out there. Sometimes the sun breaks through the canopy and reflects golden-green off of leaves and bird beaks and ants making their way along twigs. They keep time with their little legs. But the rest of the time, it’s a jungle out there and the jungle is a torrid bitch slip slop sucking you dry of all you’ve got until you’re so twisted and turned that you turn straight to the fucking wolves. Beg them to eat you alive with your puny voice that never sounded good on an answering machine, anyway. You stretch out your hands. What were you going to do with those fingers, anyway? Write love letters to the dead that deserted you so long so long so long ago you can’t even remember what their voice sounded like on an answering machine? Or maybe you were going to tap tap tap a few keys on the keyboard of your laptop that, for years, stood in for the Friday night dates you never had. After your hands come your arms, the very same arms that used to wrap around your lover after he informed you that, yes, you would be spending the entire day at Dolphin World. Did you leave him a voicemail, or will he assume you finally ran away from the shitty family you never defended? Send the wolves to them next, amIright? In my experience, next goes your torso. Your lean, smooth torso with just enough belly button hair to be filed under “gruesome.” Snap goes your spinal cord, steam go your innards. It’s all downhill from there.