...I would wish myself a dab of cynicism
Though my inner pollyanna knows a thousand antidotes
I explain to her.
-Leave it, I want it this way. It will be better this way.
And she patters with her patent shoes and hoses everything down with Sweet syrup from a huge glass bottle, which she keeps under the bed, short of pile of "paying guest" diaries and a box of liquorice treats.
-Get the fuck out, pollyanna! I say out of pure goodness. I really wish I could stop believing in love, and finally have some peace
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