He gives me cigars and gin to calm my nerves but the baby hid the matches and I’m a picky drinker. We try to have sex in the middle of Twinkle Star Forest but I can feel someone on another planet watching me through a telescope and beyond that the twigs and acorns are agitating my ass, breaking that much needed concentration. I pretend I’m the concupiscent babysitter, all high on cherry cola flavored lip balm and Mr. Pibb. I have no problems, man. I’ll do anything you want. Watch me do the splits! He claps but I don’t believe him. His eyes especially make me wary. I see several countries in his eyes and I can’t pronounce any of them. To make me horny he drones on about some bullshit conspiracy theory…Elvis and JFK and Jim Morrison and Marilyn Monroe and James Dean and Buddy Holly are hiding out on the real Gilligan’s Island and they don’t want to be rescued. I feign arousal but I am thinking about the carnival and the skinny guy in the Hawaiian shirt who sold me the super long corndog. I wouldn’t go inside the house of mirrors because I have enough bad luck to last me the next twenty-one years. Whenever we’re together for any length of time things have a way of breaking. The one thing I can’t seem to break to him is the news. My heart is buried beneath a pile of incense ashes somewhere in the Lower Haight. Krista, ever the Pisces, says in my last incarnation I was his poodle. That would explain the plethora of hoops.