michele stumbled into music 17a at santa monica college with her guitar case and her black converse high tops. her stockings were intentionally ripped and her shoes had words like love peace and robert smith scrawled over it. her handwriting looked like barbed wire. she was almost as pale as this text, her eyes were painfully blue and her firehouse red lipstick was smeared around the edges.

who knew that she would be my girlfriend for the next three years?

certainly not her. as class ended she ran to her blue honda accord to get back home to zuma so fast that i had to wait two days to catch her again and ask for her phone number.

what would have happened if she hadnt given it to me? well, let's think about this: michele was the first real poet i ever met, she majored in journalism at college, and she was the first girl that i ever did, uh, lots of things with. like take pictures.