Be my fugu chef, my chief of staff. Be my Druid priestess, my crime scene specialist. Be my evil genius in torn black stockings, my comic opera heroine, my seventeen function wristwatch. Be my Sasquatch. Be an undercover reporter, the one who discovers my hidden super-powers. Be my Hound of the Baskervilles, howling on the moors. Be my Boy Scout campfire smores. Be my trailer park tornado. Be my ripe tomato. Be my garlic clove, my bright red rose. Be my Afghan black hash, my hidden sorrow, my bottomless lake. Be my financier, my legal tort, my diplomat cake. Be my Philby, my Sasha, my mole. Be my Black Adder, my Mad Hatter. Be my star-kitten, my thunderbunny, my cherry-bomb. Be my oxygen tent, my silver bullet. Be my Guy Fawkes, my Europop diva. Be my election promise, my magnum opus, my scientific experiment gone horribly awry. Be my looking glass tie. Be my muse, my wet dream, my tin-pot dictator. Be my Moriarty, my homecoming party. Be my jazz funeral. Be my morality play, my ghazal. Be my Sanskrit phrasebook, my scratchy Leonard Cohen album. Be my Tokyo Rose, my Typhoid Mary. Be my Ben and Jerry’s. Be my midnight steel guitar, my doppelganger, my crepe-Suzette. Be my Beowulf, my Swedish twins, my seven deadly sins. Be my voice in the wilderness, my fifteen minutes of fame. Be my familiar. Be my Martha Stewart, my Calamity Jane. Be my back-alley-knee-trembler, my fallen angel. Be my Gorgonzola, my holy roller. Be my boulevardier sans pareil. Be my assassin, be my gospel choir. Be my Penthouse pet. Be my seventy-six duster, my six pack of Pil. Be my Rolls Royce with chrome plated grill. Be my transformer, my shot of tequila south of the border. Be my Russian princess in robes of velvet. Be my Elvis. Be my Knickerbocker sundae, my payday, my snow day. Be my dark continent, my fever dream, my gypsy queen. Be my PhD thesis, my Reeses’ Pieces. Be my Machiavelli, my St. Teresa, my Boadicea, my power trio. Be my Scheherazade. Be my treasure map, my Bermuda triangle. Be my evidence of life on another planet. Be my magic lantern, my shadow puppet. Be my klezmer band, my Flying Dutchman. Be my second coming. Be my opium den, my swami, my friend. Be my Margaret Atwood, my Chrissie Hynde.
Just don’t be, for Chrissake, my Valentine.
