Your not a mystery, exactly. Nor enigmatic. it's just that your hard drive is internal. You have no flashing lights. You look better in pants than you think. You like some of the songs we like. You don't even pretend to like Springsteen. (what's the matter with you?) If you follow a sport, it's probably football. If you have a sin, it's probably salt, not chocolate.

Daffodils, not roses. You remember which one of us you kissed first; we remember you, too. You think we kissed you, but you kissed us. You cheat as much as we do, which is bad for us, because we are more trusting. You peak, in all things, is forty-four years of age. That's not to say you weren't hot when you were younger: You were a knockout at twenty-six. The funny thing about you is, you think you're hotter now, so you are. However, you give a worse message than you think you give. (Don't get us wrong, we're not complaining.) You're more patient than we are, but you patience is far form infinite, and your rage, once triggered, runs deeper. You know how to hold a grudge. And yet you'll stick with us for longer than is sensible for you.

You call them your tits, just like the rest of us do. You're more attracted to Sean Penn than you care to admit.

Your hearts beat faster than ours yet you live longer. That doesn't make any sense. You have better balance, but you can't hold your breath as long. You were born and you will die with the same forehead.

You're not that funny. You'd like to go for a drive to Chicago this weekend, but you'll settle for Kansas City. You like to eat. Fuck it, then. Eat. You look better to us when you drink beer out of the bottle, when you play bass guitar in an otherwise all male band, when you wear cotton briefs rather than a thong, and when you wear clear nail polish or none at all. You also look awesome in a flannel shirt. Apparently, you look best to us when you look like a man - specifically, a drunk lumberjack with rhythm. That doesn't make any sense, either.

The Catholic-schoolgirl thing is hard to explain but, absolutely, yes.

You broke a boy's heart in the seventh grade. You probably didn't even know you did it, but you definitely did. You sat in the front of the class, close to Mrs. Murney, and we sneaked sideways glances at you when we went to sharpen out pencils. Then one day we all went on a ski trip, and on the way home you sat beside us on the bus, and you put your head on our shoulder and we thought we had a chance, but you were just tired from skiing. you looked cute in a stocking cap.

You like Jason instead. You need to stop pretending your cat cal spell phonetically. You may be able to fool boys, but you can't fool men. Your boyfriend is a boy. your not as desperate to get married as the movies make you out to be. If you have children and someone has wronged them, your just as capable of violence as we are. The difference is, you would use a knife. You would look better either without your tattoo or more of them. You've felt sicker to your stomach than we have. Your nicer to us than we are to you. But we're nicer people.

You'll still catch yourself wondering what your life would have been like with him long after we've forgotten about her. You hope it will be something quite and minor and peaceful and slow, too. You'll miss us when we are gone, but not as much as we would miss you. maybe that is why we die first. Your hearts beat faster, but they have less blood to push.

You know who you are.

Do you want to go to Kansas City?

~ Unknown