Hi. I don’t see you. But if you are reading this, I know you are there. How are you? I am fine. I hate that answer, “fine.” It’s a nothing. There’s got to be better responses…
How are you? I am a corpuscle made of stone inside your colon, weighing you down uncomfortably and slightly painful. I am a vibrant piece of trash, transforming into a dove before your very eyes. You’d better turn away or risk the throes of death. How are you? I am a freshly cut lawn, smooth, shiny green and crewcut beautiful. I am a way out of this mess, grab onto my shoulders, secure your backpack. How are you? I am multitudes of stars inside the palm of a toddler’s hands that they beg you to look at but you’re too busy on your phone looking to see if Stan liked the post of your beach legs. But if you’d only looked, you would’ve seen. I am the awe you missed consuming into your soul, elevating everything you’d ever known or believed. I am—instead—the smack you gave the toddler with the palms-full of multitudes of stars-me, and the tears and shame that resulted. How are you? I am what you wanted to be before you ever got the chance. I am a well-oiled machine. I am divine and disaster. How are you? I am trying to make you like the Rolling Stones and it’s hard because you’re twelve. How are you? I am spending three days trying to wipe this lipstick, lip print off my chest where Heather kissed it. I am the picture of myself pulling my dress down to show the lip print to the camera, face all drunk and sexy. I am a pink sparkle version of myself. How are you? I am running in circles, a snake biting its tail, tasting its own failure. I am a mixtape of songs made from the moans of birthing, dying and fucking. How are you? I am fine, but all of these other answers would be much better, don’t you think?
But, seriously, how are you?
And DON’T say, “fine.”