jenny jones was seventeen,

every girl in the city,

every little boy’s dream.

jenny jones sat still and stared into the mirror. she thought about her foot on the pedal, what it would feel like to drop her heel to the floor. she thought about the fish bowl that she was living in, the fish bowl that she tapped her impatient knuckles against the smooth glass borders of each morning as she opened her eyes.

the fishbowl. the kool-aid. jump into the jell-o. 

life is like a box of cheez-its, she thinks. you stick your hand in and pull out seven hundred soldiers in uniform, each completely symmetrical and perfectly processed. no one breaks the code. 

jenny jones thinks long and hard about that pedal. she thinks about the fishbowl. she stuffs cheez-its in her mouth and decides to wait until tomorrow.