Magdalena and I are gonna cross America on two motorcycles. We're gonna be so fucking cool, mirrors and and windows will break when we pass by. We'll have our own hardcore theme music that makes us throw our heads back and bite the sky, and women wearing pink foam curlers in passing RVs will desire us and we'll slowly turn to them at seventy-five miles per hour and mouth "hello" back. Bugs may stick to my burgundy lipstick, but I'll just spit them back and they'll look all the prettier for it.
Yeah/cooool. Two party bags of drugstore ice on motorcycles. The sun wouldn't dare melt us because that would be a big, huge, major mistake.
We're gonna ride from armpit to armpit across the chest of America, joyride full-throttle down the crack of Tennessee's ass. Bite a Grand Teton and
Bypass Florida altogether because you get old there like real fast.
Sloppy-kiss the greasy lips of Louisiana.
Caress the cool, clean underside of a butcherblock from a slaughterhouse somewhere in Montana.
Hey, there are a zillion ways to say you're going cross-country and Hallmark has a card just for you.
We'll be riding the cheapest motorcycles we can find / stopping every forty-five minutes fro gas. Truck stop waitresses will wink and jam dollar bills in our happy little beautifully tanned fists, but we'll whisper "no thanks." because we don't need it / we'll live off the fumes from our estrogen.
~Flaming Iguanas by Erika Lopez, pgs, 1-2