Ghost Doll

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Ghost Doll. She was made of glass and fire, and was allergic to killer bullets. But once while waltzing to the soup store, she stepped into the middle of a bulletin board landslide that scraped her out to sea. When she finally stopped barfing shards of lemon pie, she realized that she metaphorically wasn't in Kansas anymore. She also redundantly had never been in Kansas before, at least twice. She paradoxically had ALSO never been to Kansas anymore.

After she had finally finished pondering the realizations of not having been in Kansas, she began to wonder what she should already know, and why wondering this might do her any good, when the answers were bound to be wrapped in mysterious ramblings from an impersonal narration by a former NFL hall-of-famer if they could get him, which they couldn't. But he had turned down so many opportunities that opportunity finally got bored and stopped knocking him on the head and instead tried the kneecaps and landed him like a ton of fish after he stopped bathing because he couldn't afford soup and was dyslexic in a funny (but not derogatory) way.

Opportunity knocks, not mocks. One of the new slogans opportunity had printed for tee-shirts of inverted destiny that it had printed up on aluminum feather garlands that filter through our transparent minds with greased knots weaved within our tangled strangled consciousness creating a shovel-slapped plethora of life-giving crimson fluid for the counterpoint to our intensity of inverse nuances.

Well, of all her friends Ghost Doll's best friend in the whole universe was a girl named Tuna Scooper, and they would laugh and play, even though they were only each other's imaginary friends. But they themselves were in each other's parallel universes, so they would spend their days explaining to the other imaginary friends that in the world to which they belonged they weren't real. But the other imaginary friends treated them as outcasts due in part to the fact that a decree had been written that allowed mice to be used as lies for a decade and four pennies. But still nothing came of it.

But, oh, how they would laugh and play and dissolve crickets and aluminum handbags and western style handkerchiefs which they used to sun themselves on the family gizzard pick and scream about how uptight holidays spawned by cancer are.

Those were the days we all recalled with trite contrition spoon fed like a baby mermaid glittering in the mundane & noxious oceans of our prefab bliss.