SHE She sits in the corner of life. Dumb Bitch.

She's my soundtrack but she doesn't know it. I watch her lips move as she speaks. I think of a million other things but when asked to recall what she just said I can do so verbatim even a week, shit, a month, later. But a movie has a soundtrack and not vice versa. She knows she saw that movie but can't quite remember with whom.

Last night I had a dream that this stereotypical old Chinese man left a machine on my doorstep. I used the machine to turn her into a doll. It was just lovely for a while - I was in control now and could admire her beauty when ever I wanted without her turning away the way she always did when she was a real girl. Always saying things like: "No, don't look at me I'm gross." or "Ick, don't touch me", while jumping up and down, laughing hysterically. But I soon found tears on my pillow and realized that I wanted to be a doll with her. I woke up upon discovering that I was too tall to fit in the stereotypical Chinese man's machine.

I just called her. I wanted to tell her about my dream and that I had just predicted what Mulder was going to say on "The X-Files" before he even started to say it and I wanted to ask her if she would come to Quebec with me this summer, while my parents went to stay at the same old ugly time-share condo in South Jersey we've been going to since I was three. . . but she wasn't home. I wonder if she's off drinking somewhere with her college-basketball boyfriend who can't even pronounce her name right or if she's in the Village convincing a group of trendy suburbanites that she starred in "Les Miz" for a week or so until she stopped sleeping with the director who just wasn't up to her standards. I picture her best in a dark grey club playing the piano in her grandmother's long red flapper-dress. She may or may not be with her boyfriend, or lying to trendies but she's certainly wondering softly and unimportantly to herself when she's been to this club before and with whom.