Carly-Anne Ravnikar

All The Other Kids Are Cool

When I was 10, I was waiting to get my period,
with a tampon expectantly nestled between my flaps.
No, really, because I didn’t know where to put it.

If you want to know why I give such good blow jobs,
it’s because I researched it online when I was in seventh grade.
I used to be a prude. But now I’m a big nasty slut.

Once, I made a whip from material found in my father’s garage:
An old electrical cord. One end wrapped in tape, one end frayed.
And boy it packed a tight little sting.

I came from a generation where you could still get away with skipping class
and making out for hours in the stairwell to the gymnasium’s balcony. Before cameras.
When the order was kept by grumpy fat ladies with walky-talkies and detention slips.

When I got to college, I was surprised that there were no smoking bathrooms.
There were no streakers. Or orgies. Or girls making out at the rugby parties.
Except when I showed up to the parties. Oh yeah. Then it got crazy, yo.

I like to smoke pot while I drive to work and listen to pop stations,
because it keeps me in the slow lane and helps me relate. Do you
want to have a slumber party in my basement? Stuff like that.

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