boo


I know this woman, right. Her name’s Boo. She keeps her Christmas decorations in her car and gets stoned on Ibuprofen. She can’t help it.

I laughed at her once when I was 8 – she wore this super-70s wool coat to pick her kid up from school – it was 1984.

I’d kill for that coat now.

She married this man. Tough guy. Loved his Harleys. Loaded….the way you are when you’re shelling out natural resources. He cheated. She left. Didn’t take a penny. She could have had a car. A hundred acre spread in the country. A few industrial strength generators…….like you do.

All she wanted was that damn coat.

She gets depressed alot. Feels smothered down. Tired. Wonders if all her friends are really as dumb as they act…or if they’re just having her on. Sometimes she asks. They look at her. Insulted.

She was just asking.

“Problem you have,” one of them said “is that you don’t watch Oprah. You’re too busy with CNN.” Boo doesnt watch CNN. “You’d learn something if you watched Oprah. She’d educate you. ”

She might. One day.

Boo says she’s old. 46. She wants to spend Christmas in New York, but wont change her hair for anyone.

boo, england 2006

She’s always at home. Unless she’s gone. Then she’s somewhere else. That’s what she says.

She hates germs. Scrubs everything with bleach and drinks vinegar. She doesn’t like Scotch but she’ll drink it too. Because she doesn’t want a man….not now.

She wears pink pastel on her lips, twice a year. The rest of the time she wears nothing..and why should she.

Boo said she wants to be a photographer. She wants to write.

I said….I do too.

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