I can’t get her out of my head.

I mean, it’s not so much that

she’s in there like the way a hermit

crab refuses to come out of its shell

and draws deeper in the closer

you get to it. She’s not in there

like that. And in fact, now that

I think about it, I’m not sure

she’s stuck in there at all or that

I even want to get her unstuck

for that matter. No, this female

version of me is in my head the

way a hot anchor is on a giant

television screen in some city,

where everybody looks up above

the street to watch the news,

only she comes and goes like a

picture with poor reception you

have to smack the side of a few

times in order to make stay put.

It’s not so much that I want her

out of my head. It’s that she’s not

in the Me Show as much as I’d like

her to be, and I wish she was.