My eyes widen, and a patriotic spark awakens
My senses, as though of Coca-Cola I had drunk,
Or inhaled a Big-Mac with four slices of bacon.
One minute passed, and then these words I had thunk:
“Tis not through hatred of the ugly lot,
but being too happy in thy ugliness,-
That thou, star-spangled cardigan of wool,
In some melodious plot
Of patchwork art, and flags numberless (aka 2),
Singest of America the beautiful.
Summer is winding down now, and we are all ready to be back at school. For those of us who are just as weird as Lana del Rey and nowhere near as pretty, summertime sadness is some real shit. Everyone seems to fall into a summer category: working a kickass internship at some awesome company; partying like old times with your high school biddies; “studying” abroad or just being a generally wealthy person who gets to “summer” in Athens for funsies; or finally, being forced to remember why you hated your hometown in the first place.
I, unfortunately, fall into the last category. Subheading: bored housewife training.
Sherman Ave 