when i woke up, i was angry
to find that i am not anaïs nin.
i am not a famous lover or writer,
let alone a famous-writer-lover.
i tried to compose some classy erotica
but all i was able to drag out was a gritty page of sickness.
i am not cut out to be swanky.
at least i managed to paint my nails
while my pizza defrosted.

maybe one day i will dye my hair purple,
get a rose tattooed on my breast,
and go out dancing in teetering shoes
but right now i am busy convincing
my vehemently single friends
that when i have children i will still be hip
and my sister that
when i get married i will still come over for dinner sometimes
and my mother that
when i get old i will still like my tattoo.

i try to walk to the grocery store
the way i think anais nin would walk to the grocery store.
on the way i meet a small child and a friendly cat.
the child says sorry in german when she runs into my leg.
the cat says "purrr."
cats speak the same language everywhere.
they would make excellent businesspeople.

i don't think i succeed in being sultry while i grocery-shop.
at least my nails shine a satisfying red in the fluorescent lights
of the refrigerated foods section.