Scene: Pete’s Candy Store, Williamsburg, BK. I’m waiting for my friends’ band to go on. I’ve walked what feels like 6 miles through an industrial area. I’m a little nervous, glad to see my friends, in need of a beer. A girl I don’t know sits down across from me and starts fondling the arm of the boy next to her.
“I’m —-,” she says. She has those big shiny eyes that make you think the person looking at you is stupid or stoned.
“Jen.” I shake her hand.
“Are you Dave’s girl?”
“Nope.”
“Matt’s?”
“Nope.”
Blink, blink. “Well, whose girl are you?”
I lean over the table. “Baby, I’m my own girl.”
At least I didn’t have to man the merch table.
Jennie Smash 
It’s funny how everything is brought back to poop. Even better, hobo poop.
Less hobo poop, more frenching.
This we like.
–Taupey
And then you started wearing combat boots…
You hob0wned her!
Well. Hobo poop.
Come on.
Indeed.
Be your own person!
Identity through suffering!
I am sad for that girl.