Fix Me, America

I made my man howl in bed like Cosmo Girl instructed, except it was accidental. 

When I tried to run my hand through his hair, my thumbnail scratched his cornea.

I cried about it more than him.  At the time I was experimenting with false

eyelashes and my tears unhinged the glue to my plastic-eye-antenna. 

Those feelers slid off my eyelids and stuck to my cheeks. I was an alien insect

from a planet beyond the Milky Way.  I was Cosmo Girl’s girl from the cosmos.

There are things I could buy to correct my wrongs. 

I could make a new self out of acrylic, plastic, silicone,

and a splash of mystery chemicals—like Iron Man. 

Except my superpower would be my noteworthy ass. 

First, I’d buy padded butt enhancers, then creams

for saggy eyes and cellulite, a push-up bra, new nails

to cover my chipping ones, a few pairs of spanks,

diet pills (that I affectionately call brownie forgivers)

and red lipstick to enhance my tepid complexion. 

Or should I go with the coral lipstick instead?

In Walmart, among the toasters, I found the perfect woman for only

$5.99.  Her name is Lady Dish Brush™.  Google it!  You can flip her,

grip her leopard-print curves (for better functionality) and scrub

crusty bits with her bristle-hair.  She will smile the whole time.