Mostly it's Punky and Baby Momma, but last night Baby Pappa and Id Girl came along. Id Girl is another of Girl's co-workers, and long time friend of Punkie. Apparently she's the type to blurt out whatever's on her mind, often leading to hilarity or hurt feelings. There were fortunately no hurt feelings last night, but still plenty of id, which we shall get to in a second. As for Baby Poppa, not much is known of him other than he put his penis into Baby Momma's vagina at one point, thus earning them their nicknames. Baby Momma tends to portray him as a meek little killjoy, and I could definitely see that. It was hard to get a read on his personality, but then, maybe that IS his personality.

I will not get into the nuts and bolts of what all went down last night myself, since Id Girl wrote it all out so much better than I could. As she sat there expressionless, eyes closed, scrawling in her notebook in total nonstop free association, she brought to mind what Milton must have looking like, harkening to his muse.

Here's what she came up with:

Deep space, a fucking journey to the beyond. A trip so surreal all time has stopped. Rules that need to be obeyed and lessons swallowed. A shoe, the luckiest slut you�ll ever get out here n the dark deep. Nature always cracking your ball sack, fucking you and sending you away. Cat urine, the best drink you�ll ever get. Out here you realize how 2D everything is and no one raises you props for understanding. Nature is mean, taking your glasses and wondering away high, wondering where the fuck she�s gone.

She pokes you every now and then, a sharp stick, eyes burning, wandering aimless. Deep space a communist, spreading death evenly, trail mix your only consolation prize. Hard games of patty cake, the only fun you�ll ever find, falling closer to the ends of time, nature howls at you because she can. Glancing at your areola, nature is a tom peep, talking about the big things.

Unbalanced I came into these deep reaches of space, with a wet boob and dirty leg, the dust buster is my only solace. I channeled from beyond, trying to understand a world I was so blind to. So many ghosts came from beyond, smacking me with pop cans to get my attention. The world didn�t understand me, they only wanted to drink, vomiting all over the place. And so cruel they are, humping your teddy bear and stealing your tricks. The next morning we all have to go to work, wrappers in our cleavage and broken cameras behind. We did it to each other, smashing pop cans on our heads and sumo wrestling, discussing why there are no girl �jack asses.�

We cheat, watching each other, waiting for the other to strike. We ask too much of each other, dropping trail mix everywhere, throwing things at my head, I wonder about their sanity and love for me. Using the sharp end of the can, they bleed, but not for me. They eat and pay for each other, but not for me. With tongues a blaze in frightful sin, they race for each other�s nuts. (peanuts, cashews and almonds.) With a name like Almond Joy, they drop things in their nuts. They put things in my nose yet reveare me as a wise guy in Tibet. Atop my high mountain to mock me, they dump strawberry daquiris at my feet. Tricking each other with M&Ms on the floor, they play footsie and line the field with spray butter. They abuse me and conspire , �Who will hold her down?�

Dazed and confused, they tried to set me afire, my death a mistake, they had to send pictures to my family. My pain went unnoticed, I slowly die, while they play on words. How romantic it all was, my noble death, a joke. I was burned alive. My death�.what can I say about it, fucking another high person is bad karma, but he had the worst excuse.

Send me a copy they said amid cans of coke. Legs spreak across me they want, �don�t worry, I po-tect you. � The only want to have sex, coming to the call of naked. Boobs flopping wide, they pour each others drinks, demonstrating their best areola.

Tapping on me, they threaten to break me, pinching their nipples for the experience. Who knocked over the ashtray, I cannot say. Deep throat knows. Deep throat always knows. Lighting their cigarettes and chatting about ragu spaghetti, �Riga-boo-boo� they chant about their chef Boyardee. Do a line of spaghetti- Cooked or uncooked? Sugar cut with crack, the salt burns their nose. The pain is no lesson to pepper in their nose. A ghost keeps flashing in the corner of my eye, a sweet stern girl I think is my daughter. I think she can see me and knows me and is ashamed of me. I want to make it up to her, tell her I�m sorry, that I can still be a good mother. How unhappy I was in my teen life, pot was my only retreat. Some good came out of it (you did I think, my never forgave me her conception. She was born to punish me, to remind me of my transgressions.�

There are people that are Muslims, and then there are people who fly planes into buildings. Which one are you?

Piercings helped to define eyes, to encourage us in ways we�d never imagined. �Pierced chick� and �punk girl� aliases to our true identity, sober as an ice cream in the ear, we regret each other and laugh about the good times. There are so few good times, lapsing into unconsciousness�.to escape the bounds of mortal earth, they debated my genius and debunked it.

Butter for the cat grass, the only thing Killian needs. They shove things in their dark spots and laugh hysterically.

How sideways they are, crushing my glasses underfoot, they address me as �MK�, a word synonymous with fuck. Speak English, they beg, but nature will not heed. A divided people we will continue to be. To know where you live is to imply a threat. I�m ready to go now.

Yes, in some form or another, pretty much the whole night is in there. Shit like this has been happening here all week, excluding our little trip to the old homestead, where it also happened, just with different people. All I have to add to last night's account is this:

I touched a booby.

Wooderson

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