Needless to say, I continued to hang out with this interestingly weird woman, a lesbian, who was always so nice to me, polite and attentive. I already had a boyfriend. But he had a lot of problems and our relationship had taken a dive at that moment.

I want people to know that I have MS. Fuck! I want to shout it at those people who complain to me about nothing. This hurts. That hurts. Fuck you! I have MS! 

For all you know the person next to you has more shit in their life than you do, or me. And now you’re thinking, she’s wrong! I have more shit than the person next sitting next to me. And is that a contest you want to win? I don’t! I don’t!

“I think you are being inappropriate, sir.  Please leave.”  Then I picked up the closest ashtray and clocked him. 

And that tuft of hair on her mound of Venus that surrounded her lips and teased itself into a perfect curl with the perfect color. She was my ideal.

Then I saw my body, scarred — from the cesarean, fat, lined, wrinkled. It was mine. I heard a woman in the background say, Roberta’s breasts are too large. And it’s just not pretty.

You see, the people in my dreams talk, and they are not always kind.

We sent her down to the front side walk, which was a little tricky to get to, I admit. We were hoping for pictures of all the birthday party attendees wrapped around and hanging off the railings. It took her a very long time to hit bottom. She kept stopping and yelling “Am I there yet?” 

By now the piano player hates the trumpeter. The stage has become a hostile environment. Soon it will be time to wake up the bass player. I just want to get off the stage. It's my turn again. We are just about to wrap up my song and people start screaming.

I always planned on being a singer and as it turns out I am a pretty successful jazz singer in the city. But at 18, I had decided to be an opera singer. In my search for a teacher, ballsy me, courageous me, determined me, sent a letter to Beverly Sills, one of the greatest coloratura soprano’s in the world, asking her for a voice teacher recommendation.

I am Matisse, and this is a kid’s story, because I am a kid. I am nine years old and very responsible for my age. The other Matisse, at least the only other one I know, was a great painter, the father of abstraction. I have decided to be empress of the universe. I’m what adults call precocious.  

My Grandma-ma always speaks to me as if I’m the smartest person she ever met. My mom still thinks of me as only nine and my dad, well he just smiles at me all the time. Actually he beams. He doesn’t say much of anything.

Ariadne, dressed sensibly. Sensible hat, sensible shoes, little white gloves, some said she was a very sensible girl. She was thirteen when all sensibility flew out the window. She laughs about it now. Those teenage years were difficult for a girl so sensible.