Kristen Orser

Dear descending,

I persuade myself to sound, likening wooing.  Sewing a blind moment when we were smallish with tiny slippers on. 

                                                                                                Bee, what are you saying?      

We play kneesie less and less.  How can I possibly go on with a straight face? I try not to sound like a girl when there are girls around, but I try to sound very much like a girl when there aren't any girls around.

                                    The figurine is tipped. I am in hysterics about all the pretty emotions dressed in bonnets.  I'm afraid I'm not telling the whole story when I'm cutting little holes into socks, calling them puppets.   A point of view please (!):              

When I am alone, talking to myself, I am surprised I don't sound at all like a character from The Great Gatsby.

                                                                                    This is the beginning of a very strange Sunday when we finally talk about what we don't talk about: 

                                                                        Most words sound weird if you say them over and over again; I forgot what word I was thinking about specifically.  Remember that thing I was trying to tell you about yesterday?   I was bleeding the alphabet in my hand,

                                                                                                            I was telling you—

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