fake jazz + everything means nothing

The callouses were never like they are now, even at my brow-furrowest simulacrum of Satoko Fujii—pouncing keys and chord clusters, aspiring to atones—as pianist/bellwether in the Ghosts of Women Who Haunt Cliffs. I have liberated something like 3000 CDs from their jewel cases, for stacking and stowing and shipping in brown packages: to show for it, my hands are two blistered claws. MP3s, you are my destiny.
Over the past week, I’ve seen three unrelated eight-year-olds whipping through Irv Park on BMX bikes, trolling for gummi worms in the supermarket—all rapping “Tipsy,” word for word, Mean Girls style.